


The Aftermath

by mightbeanasshole



Series: You'll Understand (When You're Older) [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Alternate Universe Where Ray Can Drive, Cock Piercing, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:45:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 158,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2398916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "The Hustler." At the urging of his colleagues, Geoff Ramsey leaves his life as a struggling college professor to teach at a posh high school in the middle of nowhere. But on his first day at the new job, Geoff's biggest mistake is staring at him from the front row of his senior English class--and the kid isn't about to go away. </p><p>So what the hell do you do when you're forced to spend an entire school year teaching the kid you gave a barely legal blowjob to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Find "The Hustler" here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2335121
> 
> Warnings will be updated as chapters are finished and this story earns its 'explicit' rating.

The bell rings and the class erupts into chaos, chairs shrieking back away from desks, bags being zipped up and heaved to shoulders.

“Narvaez. Jones,” Geoff turns his attention to the two students who he’d barely been able to ignore during the 50-minute period. “A moment, please.”

Their other friend--it’s clear from the glances they shared that they operate as a trio--separates from them quickly, throwing a grin over his shoulder at the two of them as he speeds out of the room. Ray starts to protest, but Michael just stands there looking forlorn and refusing to make eye contact, his mouth pressed into a straight line, a fist curled around the strap of his bag.

“Mr. Ramsey I only have five minutes to get across campus to--” Ray begins.

“I’ll write you a pass,” Geoff says, trying to stay nonchalant while the class continues to file out.

“Seriously Mr. Ramsey, Heyman is a hardass and he already hates me and if I’m late--”

“Ray, Christ,” Michael says, low. “Just shut up.”

It has taken all of Geoff’s sanity to make it through the period and he feels at this point as he’s been running a marathon. He feels weak, like he’d like to find a nice dry hole somewhere to curl up in and die.

It hadn’t been a bad enough day so far, had it? Waking up to a broken fridge, food stinking and warm already, in his rundown piece of shit apartment. Feeling utterly unprepared for his first day, despite employer-mandated planning sessions, despite hours in front of lesson plans. And then being late-- _late_ \--for his first day of class. And forget the staff meeting because that had been completely out the window. He hadn’t even damned made it in and the rest of the teachers already hated him for his tattoos.

Fucking Chewelah.

Come work with us in Chewelah, Gus and Burnie had insisted all last year. You’ll like it so much more than slaving away for pennies at a state university, they’d said.

Fuck. Ing. Chewelah.

And then, to top it all off, walking into that nasty ambush with that nameless little pool shark and his cronies.

Geoff had almost puked when he saw the kid--a teenager for christsakes. Although his friend’s cute little question hadn’t been one of the more shining moments of Geoff’s career, it at least broke the tension and kept Geoff from vomiting neatly into his wastebasket in front of a class of 19.

He’d been quick to memorize their names when taking roll: Gavin Free, Ray Narvaez Jr., and Michael fucking underaged hustler jailbait Jones. Geoff’s head is wrecked. He needs to nip it in the bud--today.

Geoff takes deep breaths and sits on the edge of his desk, arms crossed in front of his chest, trying his best to look every bit composed and intimidating as the last stragglers leave his classroom. Internally he is a trembling mess, but these kids didn’t need to know that.

The air hangs stuffy and sweet with the smell of cleaning chemicals in the barely-used classroom. Every surface seems too clean and a bit too bright. Geoff squeezes his eyes shut and massages the bridge of his nose. Jesus Christ, what a first day. No salary boost is worth this special type of hell on earth.

The three of them are finally alone.

“I have two questions for you boys and I don’t want you bullshitting me,” Geoff says with the most vinegar he can muster into his voice. “You think you can handle that?”

They both nod. Ray frowns directly into Geoff’s face, but Michael’s eyes are fixed on a spot somewhere behind him. The kid looks younger than ever, and there’s that sick feeling rising in the pit of Geoff’s being.

“If you lie to me, I _will_ find out and I _will_ make life hell for both of you this year.”

Ray’s eyes widen. Michael doesn’t react.

“First, how old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Michael says immediately, finally meeting Geoff’s eyes. He almost looks hurt. “Christ, like, I’m legal, OK? I’m not a fucking maniac, Mr. Ramsey I--”

“Language, Jones,” Geoff cuts him off, every inch the tough guy.

Michael lets out a hard puff of air through his nose and cuts his eyes at Ray. It’s clear the kid wants to talk alone, to talk about what had happened without Ray there, but that isn’t the plan. As far as Geoff is concerned, sharing a continent with each other is about as close to alone as he plans for them to be for the foreseeable future.

“Next question. Who else knows?”

“Gavin does,” Ray volunteers. “And Kerry. But he’s not in this class. He hasn’t even seen you yet but Gavin’s probably somewhere texting him right now about it.”

“That’s good, boys,” Geoff says, arms still crossed. “Now let me tell you how this is going to go. The two of you are going to go about your morning. At lunch, you’re going to find Kerry and you’re going to find Gavin. And then you’re going to admit that you lied to them.”

Michael starts to protest at that, but Geoff just cocks his head.

“Jones. You’re going to tell them that you lied. You’re going to tell them that you met me, that you pool sharked me, and that you conned me out of a hundred bucks,” Geoff says with the best menacing tone he can. “But then you’re going to admit that _anything else you may have told them about me_ was a lie.”

Geoff lets that hang there between the three of them. A heavy silence. Neither one will meet his eyes now.

“Think you can handle that, boys?”

“Yes, sir,” Ray says, no joke in his voice now. Michael looks like someone has socked him in the gut.

“Jones. Do you think you can handle that?” Geoff stretches out the words meanly, as if he’s talking to a moron or a toddler.

“You got it, boss,” Michael shoots back, a blush rising on his cheeks and fake enthusiasm in his voice.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Geoff says, real anger beginning to rise.

“Yes,” Michael spits. “I can handle that. Mr. Ramsey.”

Before Geoff can address the kid’s attitude problem, the classroom door slams open. The three of them freeze simultaneously.

“No chance of a pop quiz tomorrow, right Mr. Ramsey?”

A slim senior boy smiles at them from the doorway, holding a folder to his chest.

“Jesus CHRIST Caleb,” Michael says. “Do you not fucking knock or?”

“Jones. _Language_?” Geoff says.

The kid clears his throat from the doorway.

“Sorry I didn’t realize this was a private meeting,” the other student says. “But are we going to have a quiz?”

“No, no,” Geoff says. “We’ll just talk about Steinbeck. Bring your book.”

“Since when do you even get to ask a teacher if there’s going to be a pop quiz?” Michael says, frowning at the other student. “You don’t have to answer stuff like that Mr. Ramsey.”

“Trying to take advantage of a new teacher?” Ray says, a smile curling on his lip. “Stay classy, dude.”

Caleb turns with a shrug to exit. Just like that Ray and Michael are following after him.

“Hey Narvaez, you want that pass?” Geoff calls after him.

“Nah, Heyman can suck my dick anyway.”

“Ray _please_ ,” Michael says. And then the two of them are gone.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael faces second period. Geoff faces Gus and Burnie.

Michael realizes how lucky he is that his second period is Media Production 2 and not something requiring any sort of attention span. The class is in a large studio, just one building over. He and Ray part ways without saying anything, Ray giving him a grave look before spinning on his heel towards his own economics class across campus.

Michael’s not sure which sounds more appealing: going straight home to lie face down on his bedroom floor for a few hours, or storming back into Ramsey’s deserted classroom to give the man a piece of his mind.

 _Both_ , Michael finally thinks. _Both is good._

Because Michael doesn't think it’s fair. He runs through the facts in his mind as he speed-walks towards his next class. The hallways are empty. The second bell has rung already and everyone else is in class.

Yeah, he’d hustled the guy, he’d come and then run--but the situation clearly hadn't been one sided. Michael had practically been invited to spend the night with the guy. And then this stranger shows up in _his_ town, at _his_ stupid school, in _his_ senior English class. It was hardly Michael’s fault. And now Mr. fuckin Ramsey was going to start ordering him and Ray around straight off the dick?

Not only does it piss him off, Michael realizes, but also it does nothing to define a way forward for the two of them.

As he reaches the studio door, Michael wonders fleetingly if he could transfer to another class--but that would mean taking on an honors or Advanced Placement English course and his low grades in ninth and tenth year would surely preclude that.

He pushes the door open and he’s greeted immediately by casual chatter. Gavin is the first to notice him.

“Michael!” Gavin crows. “Holy mother! Last period!”

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Jones.”

Mr. Burns is seated at a computer in the front of the studio, strewn with folding chairs and cords, lighting equipment and miniature set pieces. A few clusters of students are already at work at different stations, fiddling with new cameras that came in over the summer or chattering over storyboards. Kerry and Gavin are both seated at a large computer monitor and they watch Michael warily.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Burns,” Michael says, realizing he sounds exhausted. “Mr. Ramsey kept me after class.”

“Already in hot water after one class?” Mr. Burns says, smirking. “I guess you’re not making any new friends this year.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Michael says. Burns holds out a thick packet of papers and Michael makes his way across the studio to meet the teacher.

“Here’s your syllabus. Same drill as last year. You’ve got one semester to finish your first project, which we’ll screen in December. Milestones are the same as last year, storyboard, editing deadlines, yadda yadda,” Burns says as Michael flips through the syllabus. “Oh, but I’ll need you to turn in journals every week this year. Apparently I have to prove somehow to my bosses that I’m making everyone learn something and we’re not just trying to go viral on Youtube.”

“Got it,” Michael says.

“Well, get to it. Remember to sign for any equipment you take in and out,” Burns says.

 

\---

 

“What the hell man,” Kerry says as soon as Michael takes a seat next to them. “Is that really the guy?”

“I see you wasted no time, Gavin,” Michael says, rolling his eyes.

“What, like it wasn’t the absolute first thing you were going to talk about when you got here?” Gavin says.

“Jesus this is so fucked,” Michael says.

“I checked my schedule and he’s my teacher for AP Comp,” Kerry says. “You’re sure it’s the same guy?”

Michael frowns at Kerry.

“Yeah pretty sure,” Michael says. “I mean I didn’t get the greatest look at him when I spent an entire fucking night playing pool with him and getting my goddamn dick sucked.”

“Fair enough,” Kerry says.

“Kerry you’ll see,” Gavin cuts in. “There’s no other bloke walking this earth, at least in Washington state, that looks anything like him. Michael, what did he say to you and Ray?”

“He told us that unless I lie to both of you and say nothing ever happened, he’s basically going to murder us and take our faces.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Gavin says.

“Well, I mean he’ll at least fail us. I don’t know. It was vague.”  
“So what are you going to do?” Kerry asks.

“Obviously lying to you is out,” Michael says.

 

\----

 

The school day is done and Geoff slams through the door of his new apartment at 6 pm. It’s his second day in the studio apartment--still doesn’t feel even remotely like somewhere where he belongs. All empty walls and closed blinds. He’s already abandoned the idea of dinner, abandoned the idea of a fridge that functions or an apartment that’s comfortable.

Abandoned the idea of a comfortable school year.

In his hands, he’s got a foam cooler, a 12 pack of shitty domestic beer, and a 20 lb bag of ice. There’s bourbon waiting on the counter--one of the first things he unpacked--and he fumbles for a shot glass in the cabinet. He pours a shot on the counter and cracks open a beer. Geoff downs the bourbon, chases it with the beer. The bourbon whiskey burns and the beer is nice and cold.

Geoff doesn’t want to think about Michael fucking Jones. He doesn't want to think about his failed first day, the fact that he spent the rest of the day feeling completely off, completely unable to move on from the shock of the first period. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he’d spent Saturday and Sunday thinking about that nameless boy, remembering sucking him off, wanting to tease him and regretting that he didn’t come back to Geoff’s Spokane hotel room.

He didn’t want to think about the fact that he’d already planned to revisit the bar this weekend, on the off chance that the stranger would be there again. That was all out the window. He could barely think about the Spokane bar without wanting to retch now.

All his shit is in cardboard boxes and it feels bad, alien. Sad that he could reduce his life to a few dozen boxes. At least there’s a bed, though, with crisp clean sheets. Even if it’s situated directly on the fucking floor.

Geoff pours a second shot and flops onto the bed. His phone vibrates through his pocket. It’s a text from Burnie.

“Hey man, you still coming for happy hour?”

Hell no, Geoff thinks. Happy hour is 100% engaged right here in his shitty studio apartment.

He taps out a text to Burnie: “Sorry, it was a shit day. Gonna turn in early”

The response is almost instantaneous.

“Seriously?? There’s like four bottles here with your name on them. And we want to hear about your first day.”

Geoff stares at the text message for a moment, trying to decide how to respond. A text from Gus butts its way in.

“I’m sorry but Burnie is saying something about you not wanting to drink?”

Gus continues, not waiting for a response.

Gus: “Are you sick? Hurt?”

Gus: “Do you not love me anymore?”

And then Burnie: “We could bring the party to you. Tell us your new address.”

Then Gus: “Ignore Burnie. We’re coming over. I already know where you live fucker.”

Geoff groans. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see them. It’s just that he mostly wants to lay very still and get very, very drunk. Geoff takes the second shot, chases it with the already open beer. He’s feeling it now. His head swims but it’s at least passably better than he felt before.

After a few minutes of staring at his ceiling, Geoff finally peels himself off the bed, stripping out of the work clothes that he’s been wearing for far too long, pulling on loose pants and a sweater. Fucking cold ass Chewelah.

He wonders what Michael Jones must be doing tonight. Remembers that Michael had complained at the bar about the cold weather. Wonders if Michael did what he asked, lied to his friends. Wonders if he’s freaking out anywhere near as much as Geoff is freaking out.

No, fuck that. He doesn’t wonder shit about Michael Jones. He squelches that line of thinking.

He flops on the bed again.

Sends a group text to Burnie and Gus.

“I hate you both. Bring me food you miserable fucks.”

\---

Forty minutes, a third shot of bourbon, and a second beer later, Burnie and Gus are knocking on Geoff’s door. Geoff peers through the peep hole.

“Prove food,” Geoff demands, raising his voice so they can hear him on the other side of the door. Gus raises a sack of something. Geoff can make out the word “burger” on the bag and unlocks the deadbolt with an audible ‘click,’ not opening the door but immediately taking a few steps back to his bed and collapsing down.

Burnie and Gus pause a moment outside before letting themselves into the apartment.

“You’re really an asshole,” Burnie says before the door has even shut behind him. “Had we not agreed weeks ago that we were going to meet at our bar after the first day?”

“You could’ve at least met some other staff,” Gus says, picking up the scolding where Burnie left off. “Joel wants to meet you, and everyone else is totally curious about the new guy with tattoos. They asked about you all night.”

“Especially after you missed the morning staff meeting,” Burnie says. “Hullum was hot about it, by the way. You might think about dropping by his office tomorrow.”

“Christ I thought you were bringing me burgers, not lecturing me,” Geoff says from the bed.

Gus moves to stand over him on the bed before dropping the greasy sack down onto Geoff’s face.

“Burger that you bastard,” Gus says. “You’re lucky we brought you anything after you crushed our dreams.”

Geoff sits up and paws through the bag. There are four burgers and two giant servings of fries creating translucent grease patterns through the side of the brown paper bag. It smells like greasy, meaty heaven. Geoff fishes out the first burger, unwraps it, and greedily digs in.

It tastes amazing--the first thing he’s eaten today, he realizes.

“Hey there’s beers in the cooler and plenty of other liquor,” Geoff says, remembering finally not to be a complete and utter asshole. “But whatever you do don’t open the fridge.”

“Why, you got a student’s head in there?” Burnie says. “Michael Jones perhaps? Heard you dug into him this morning.”

“No such luck,” Geoff says. “My fucking fridge died overnight. This place is truly a shithole.”

“Hey I offered you a room,” Gus shoots back.

“Awkward, no,” Geoff says. “No way am I being a third wheel to you and Esther.”

“Well I’d offer you the left side of my luxurious king sized bed,” Burnie says, “but you always reject me anyway.”

“It’s fine here,” Geoff says. “Just need to have a working fridge eventually. And a decent day at work where I can find my goddamn way to my own classroom.”

Gus has cracked everyone a fresh beer. He passes them out and joins Burnie, who is already sitting cross legged on the floor. There’s nowhere to sit, no furniture except the bed.

“What the fuck happened with Jones today?” Burnie asks, taking a swig. “He showed up to second period saying something about you keeping him late and the kid looked close to tears all period.”

Geoff squeezes his eyes closed.

“Is there seriously not something better to talk about right now?” Geoff asks.

“Well hell Geoff,” Burnie says. “He’s one of my hardest working students in the media production class. I didn’t think you’d have a problem with him.”

Geoff swings his legs to the side of the bed and heaves himself up, intent on a fourth serving of bourbon. If he’s going to tell these morons, he’s going to need to be good and drunk.

“I have him in Spanish, too, with his little crew,” Gus adds. “They cut up a lot, but they’re not the worst students I have by a long shot. Mostly they just want to know how to curse in other languages.”

Geoff sighs deeply, pouring his fourth bourbon over ice this time.

“Christ, it’s wonderful to know how much you two are invested in the wellbeing of Michael fucking Jones,” he says.

“So what’s your deal with him?” Burnie asks.

“Look assholes,” Geoff says, taking a deep draw off of the cold bourbon. “What I’m about to tell you is not--under any circumstances, under pain of death, under absolute dissolution of this friendship--is not going to leave this room. Can we get that straight?”

“Absolutely,” Burnie says.

“Christ, this sounds juicy,” Gus says. Geoff frowns and cuts his eyes at Gus. “OK, fuck,” Gus says. “I promise. You want me to pinky swear?”

 

Geoff heaves a sigh, finishes the bourbon unceremoniously, and tells his two best friends in the world--and the only people he knows in the entire state of Washington--the unpleasant truth about Michael Jones, pool shark extraordinaire.

 

For the most part, Gus and Burnie are silent. Geoff reaches the end of his story.

“I actually asked what he had planned for the rest of the night,” Geoff says, massaging the back of his neck. “And if he hadn’t have bolted? I’d have brought him back to my shitty Spokane hotel room.”

The two sit staring at him. Burnie’s mouth is pressed into a straight line, while Gus’ mouth hangs slightly slack jawed.

“Geoff…” Burnie begins.

“Are. You. Fucking. Shitting. Me.” Gus spatters out.

Geoff just widens his eyes in response.

“This is a nightmare,” Burnie says.

Geoff chokes out a laugh.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Geoff says in a mirthless voice. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking you were going to have a nice time in a bar with a random guy,” Burnie said. “Like, Geoff, none of this was your fault!”

“Oh that’s interesting news, Burnie,” Geoff says, tumbling backwards onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Seducing some anonymous 18 year old and then blowing him in the bathroom is just a completely innocent act with zero repercussions, right?”

Gus and Burnie sit silently at that. There’s really no argument they can make.

“I made a gigantic mistake and now I have to deal with it all year,” Geoff says. “There’s no doubt it’s going to get out and I’m going to get fucking fired posthaste. And then what? I go back to teaching asshole freshmen at a university? I highly doubt my old department will be clamboring to have some weirdo with a dubious history who quit his job back teaching.”

“Geoff,” Gus ventures, “He’s probably not going to tell anyone. Michael seems like an asshole but he’s honestly a good kid.”

“All four of them are,” Burnie says. “I’ve had Ray and Gavin and Kerry and Michael in my media classes for four years and they’re not really the typical high school assholes. I think they’re far more interested in making funny movies and goofing off than they are in creating some huge scandal for you.”

“Yeah, that remains to be seen,” Geoff says. “The kid has a mouth on him and more attitude than I anticipated. I don’t think he was too impressed with the tough guy act. And it won’t take much to get me fired.”

Geoff strips the second burger, almost not tasting it, he’s just so goddamn hungry he realizes.

“So either of you know a fridge repair guy in Chewelah fucking Washington,” and with this, he launches the two remaining burgers at Gus and Burnie, “Or am I completely fucked?” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm quickly realizing that it's going to take more than six chapters to tell this story the way I'd like it to be told. Eventually the narrative will speed up, and eventually there will be some adult content. But for now there's plenty of procedural content to get out of the way!

When Ramsey walks in on Tuesday, he looks like a wreck, Michael thinks.

Mercifully, the teacher doesn’t look Michael’s way as he shuffles into the classroom, looking like he slept funny on his neck. His heavy-lidded eyes are even more closed than usual, and he’s wearing dark slacks again and another shirt made from a heavy material. But while everything was crisp on Monday, his clothes today are wrinkled already, cuffs rolled sloppily up past his elbows.

The classroom goes silent when he enters, just as it did the day before, and Michael can only guess that the other students are transfixed by the additional tattoos that are visible today.

\---

The rumor mill had been in full effect the day before by the time Michael and the lads reached lunch. Most of the kids of Chewelah, like him, had never seen someone with tattooed hands--and most of the kids couldn’t really imagine what would drive someone to do it.

Michael collected snippets of the gossip throughout the day, hoping that maybe he could find out something useful about the man. Most of it was trash, though: Mr. Ramsey used to be in a street gang, Mr. Ramsey had just gotten out of prison. And, thanks to Ray’s little stunt, the fact that the man had a tongue ring was circulating as common knowledge.

Michael did hear a rumor that Ramsey knew Burns, his teacher for Media Production, and Sorola, his Spanish teacher. The details were sparse there, but Michael filed it away. Burns was was a nice guy, a good teacher. Actually treated Michael like an adult and graded fairly. Maybe he could get some information out of Mr. Burns, if all else failed.

If nothing else, he’d like to know the guy’s first name. Even though Ramsey seemed utterly uninterested in Michael’s.

Kids who didn’t even have Ramsey for English were fascinated by him, and Michael heard echoes of disappointment on Monday when Mr. Ramsey didn’t show up to eat with Burns and Sorola during fourth period lunch.

The students were already treating him like an exhibit at the zoo, and while Michael could hardly blame them for their attention, he felt a strong streak of… jealousy? Protectiveness? Ownership? He’d been fascinated by the unusual stranger first, after all. He’d spoken to the man--and. And.

The memory almost felt like a dream, now, only a few days later.

Sneaking into the bar. Chatting with a bartender. Drinks purchased and pushed into his hands. Two careful games of pool. One brash moment of complete confidence. The silence of the bathroom. The man’s tattooed knuckles digging into the bones of Michael’s hips.

It was surreal. The type of dirty dream you’d have about a teacher--not the type of thing that really happens to you.

\---

Yesterday, Michael hadn’t been sure whether or not he was disappointed that the man didn’t show up for his lunch period. And today, Michael isn’t sure whether or not he is disappointed that the man has shown up for his second day of class.

He feels alternately thrilled and frightened, like being in a room with a wild animal.

Mr. Ramsey crosses the classroom to his desk and begins to unpack his leather bag. He produces an accordion file, a large metal thermos.

“Good morning,” Ramsey greets the class without looking up. The bell rings. “Hope you all brought your books today,” he says. “Because you’ve earned yourself a sweet little pop quiz.”

A murmur ripples through the class.

“What the hell?” Caleb says from the middle of the class, outraged.

“Caleb,” Ramsey says. “Language.”

“But yesterday you said no quiz!” Caleb protests.

“And yesterday Mr. Jones kindly reminded you that you can’t just ask teachers whether or not they’re going to give a pop quiz, if my memory serves me,” Ramsey says without missing a beat.

“Oooh, got ‘em!” Ray says from the front row, earning a few laughs from the class.

Michael flushes immediately at the mention of his name and, astonishingly, Ramsey lets out an appreciative and deep chuckle at Ray’s comment. It’s a lovely, muted laugh--one Michael has heard before--and he immediately tries hard not to think about it.

Ramsey walks a stack of papers to Michael’s desk, smiling still at Ray’s joke, and hands Michael the quizzes.

“If you’ll do the honors?” Ramsey says.

Michael frowns at him, takes the papers, removes the quiz on the top, and passes the remaining papers to Ray at his right. Mr. Ramsey takes his place at the front of the classroom again.

“Now, in the interest of not being a complete sadist, I’m going to let this be an open book quiz,” Ramsey says. “If you didn’t bring your copy of East of Eden to class, raise your hand. I have a few extras you’re welcome to use.”

No one raises a hand and the students are silently passing their papers, fishing their copies of the Steinbeck book out of their bags.

“Really? Everyone is actually prepared?” Ramsey asks, his voice almost comically high with shock. No one is sure if they’re supposed to answer him, Michael realizes. Their teachers don’t usually talk to them in big classroom settings this way.

“Man, private school kids,” Ramsey says, shaking his head. He’s smiling, Michael notes, but he still looks exhausted. “There are 25 questions, mostly fill in the blank and one short answer. If you don’t know and you can’t find the answer, just guess. You have the whole period, so don’t rush.”

\---

Michael had loved East of Eden, although he’d never admit it if anyone asked him.

It started slow, to be sure, but as the story unfolded, Michael had become engrossed. The book followed many generations of a family and Michael felt connected to them, invested in them. Michael hadn’t noticed the length, the fact that he was flying through a 600 page book that he’d spent a month dreading.

He even thought about the book sometimes when he wasn’t reading it--something he’d never done before.

After the dramatic last scene, the final conclusion on the final page, Michael had slowly closed the book and held it to his chest, lying back on his bed. He felt like he’d lived an entire life in an alternate universe--like not only had he been _with the character_ Cal, but as if _he had been_ Cal. He’d realized then, with a shock, that he was crying.

He’d never cried over a book. He’d never even enjoyed a book.

But then again, Michael had never read anything like Steinbeck. Most teachers kept them on the very pat classics--ultra boring shit like Romeo and Juliet, The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye. He’d hated 99% of the assigned reading. It was just flat and if he was honest with himself, he’d been utterly unable to relate to any of it.

Then, to make things worse, he’d get into the classroom and his teachers would insist that there were all of these damn symbols and metaphors--and it sounded largely like bullshit to him. If the authors wanted him to feel like a flower was a metaphor for a broken promise then they ought to just come out and say it.

But he hadn’t felt that way with East of Eden. It was quite easy to understand the symbolism, to see the story of Cain and Abel playing out in the book. Hell, Steinbeck had named each character that paralleled Cain with a “C” name (Cyrus, Charles, Cathy, Cal) and the Abel-like characters all had A names (Abra, Alice, Adam, Aron). For once, Michael felt like an author was just putting it out there, writing on the page what he wanted you to know.

Steinbeck didn’t try to layer in a bunch of pretty, big words just for the sake of having pretty, big words. For once, Michael felt like there was more than just the surface level there. For once, he saw more meaning in a book without having to have a teacher tell him.

He hadn’t just read East of Eden. He’d lived it. He’d loved the book.

\---

Geoff watches as the kids scramble, flipping through the hefty volume in search of answers. The quiz he’s created is fairly simple. Mostly just questions about which character is which and questions about what had happened during the story. That would let him know which kids had actually read the whole book and would let him gauge whether or not pop quizzes like this would be necessary to keep the class on track.

The short answer question, he thinks, will help him understand which kids actually thought about the book and which kids just read it. Either one, he realizes, is OK. It’s a twelfth grade English class and the fate of the world is hardly hanging there in the balance.

He wants to pass everyone in the class and he wants them to go off to college understanding how to read a damn book and write a damn sentence. He’d struggled with enough college freshmen who didn’t know how to do either, and wondered how they’d gotten that far. His teaching career at the college level had been, in a word, disappointing.

Geoff opens his thermos and pours steaming black coffee into the plastic cap. He’s fighting a hangover and doing an admirable job of it, as far as he’s concerned. Burnie and Gus hadn’t stayed much later, hadn’t had much advice other than not to worry himself sick over it. That the kids were good kids and smart, even if they acted like mouthy little shits. Burnie had done what he could to absolve Geoff of his guilt, but he could tell that Gus was put off.

It’s OK, Geoff thinks. Geoff is put the fuck off, too. And he’d lost track of what and how much he’d had to drink after his friends left his apartment.

The first sip of coffee makes Geoff feel like his blood is finally moving, circulating instead of sitting like sludge in his veins. He heaves a deep sigh, surveys the room.

These private school kids are too good. No one is whispering, no one cutting their eyes at someone else’s paper to sneak an answer. Mostly they’re just feverishly flipping through pages to find their answers.

All except one. Michael Jones.

Jones is just sitting there, writing. His book is on his desk, untouched, and Jones scribbles away.

_This ought to be rich_ , Geoff thinks to himself, imagining the type of smartass answers he’s going to receive on the quiz. The kid really must not care at all about his grade if he’s willing to sit there and just fake his way through it.

Geoff wills himself not to stare at the kid, though. It’s a strange game he’ll have to play for the rest of the semester: Ignore Michael Jones, but don’t be unfair. Don’t look at Jones, but don’t put yourself in the position to be accused of never looking at him.

It’s already stressing him out and it’s only the second day.

Most students are on the second page of the quiz by now as the minutes tick past. Only about ten minutes have passed, leaving plenty of time for the students to complete their quizzes. Geoff had been generous with the time, not wanting any student to feel completely defeated on the second day of class, realizing that the pressure of a pop quiz would likely freak out the students who were poor at testing. Some kids flunked tests even when they knew all of the answers, just because testing was frightening--and if that was the case, Geoff hopes he can find those kids this week and ease their fears a bit.

Jones has kicked back his chair, Geoff notices, and is staring at the ceiling, an arm snaking back behind his neck. He’s intently mouthing his pen cap, alternately sucking and chewing on it in a way that would be disgusting if Jones weren’t himself an adorable human being.

Not that Geoff thought that. At all.

Geoff sighs.

Jones sighs.

Now he’s chewing his lips, screwing up his mouth into this expression and that. The kid obviously has an oral fixation and it’s almost comical to watch as his mouth works away as hard as his brain is.

Finally Jones lowers his chair and with a deep breath, returns to writing.

Geoff takes a draw from his coffee and begins to play the mental game of naming each student in the class. He’s admittedly terrible with names, so he’s been forcing himself to sit with the roster and put faces with names. He quizzes himself over and over again, wanting to know their names as soon as possible in the semester.

_Damn, what the hell is the kid’s name in the third row? Jack? Jake?_   
Geoff squeezes his eyes shuts.

_Jonathan? Joseph? Was it Jordan? Jordan sounds right but…_

Somewhere a few feet in front of Geoff, someone is clearing their throat. His eyes snap open.

“Can I help you Mr. Jones?”

Jones is standing at Geoff’s desk, hand offering out his quiz to the teacher.

“Do you want us to go ahead and turn these in when we’re done?” Jones asks.

Geoff checks the wall clock. They’re only 20 minutes into the period.

“You still have half an hour,” Geoff says. “I told everybody not to rush.”

“I, uh,” Jones says. “I guess I didn’t. I can just sit back down and, like, check my answers if you want though.”

“No, no,” Geoff says, waving his hand. “I’ll take it now.” He takes the quiz from Jones, watches the kid return to his desk. To Geoff’s surprise, the kid only now cracks open his copy of East of Eden, flipping to a dogeared page. The kid kicks back again, this time holding the book up and reading it, apparently engrossed.

_The fuck?_ Geoff thinks.

Geoff fishes a red ballpoint pen out of his bag and begins to grade Jones’ quiz.

The first few questions are easy.

_The Trask farm is originally located in what state?_

_What does the young Adam give his father as a birthday gift?_

_In the Bible, Cain and Abel are the sons of whom?_

They’re obvious questions, the type of thing you’d know just from reading the Cliffs Notes, and probably answers you could find if you flipped through the book without ever reading it.

Jones has answered them all correctly

The next few questions dig a bit deeper.

 

_What puzzles Lee about the story of Cain and Abel in the Bible?_

_According to the original biblical story, what motivates Cain to kill Abel?_

_Why does Aron join the Army?_

These aren’t the type of questions you’d find from skimming, and Geoff had planned it that way. You’d need to have a decent memory of the plot, have internalized the book a bit to have the answers at hand.

Jones has… answered them all correctly.

In fact, he hasn’t missed a single fill-in-the blank question on the entire quiz.

Maybe the kid has a photographic memory, but Geoff can’t quite get over the feeling that it’s some sort of trick. Not that he knew Jones at all, but he hadn’t struck Geoff as the type of kid who would’ve been studying his summer reading intently without even the threat of a quiz. He’s amazed that the kid remembered all this shit off the top of his head, without cracking the book, without even sweating over the answers.

Geoff turns to the short answer question. It’s a bit of a doozy, but also the type of question that gives a kid some room to prove his or her knowledge--one of those “no right answer” questions that just asks you to talk a bit about the book.

 

_What, according to the narrator, is the one recurring story in human history? Which character in the novel do you think best exemplifies this story? Discuss in at least 4 or 5 sentences._

Jones has practically written a novel on the page. His handwriting is scrawled in messy lines, with an arrow pointing to the right at the bottom of the page. Geoff flips the page and there’s even more on the back. _What fresh hell is this_ , Geoff wonders.

Geoff begins reading.

“The narrator of East of Eden states that the one recurring story of human history is the struggle between good and evil. The narrator also says that there is actually no other story than the story of good and evil. It is difficult to choose one character that shows this the most in the story because it seems like every single character in the story struggles between their good side and their evil side, even if they don’t know it. But maybe the best example is Caleb Trask. Cal is the character that spends the most time being aware of his internal struggles. While other characters like Adam and Aron go through life thinking that they are noble and being rewarded for what they do, Cal goes through life wondering if he is evil. The character Lee constantly reminds Cal that he has free will to choose good or evil. Unlike Adam and Aron (and a lot of the other characters) Cal looks at his actions. In the end, Cal is the most complicated character and because of this he best shows the realistic struggle of good and evil.”

Hell. It’s a bit convoluted. But hell. It’s a damned good answer.

_What the hell IS Michael Jones_ , Geoff wonders.

He peers up over the quiz, sneaking a glance at the boy. There’s no need for him to be subtle--Jones is still engrossed, apparently re-reading a passage he had bookmarked.

Geoff wonders if all of the answers are going to be like this. Is this just what private school kids are like? But really, that can’t be true. The rest of the class is still furiously flipping through pages, trying to find answers, and most haven’t even begun the short answer question.

\---

The quiz had sparked a memory in Michael, so he’s flipped to a scene between Cal and Lee to revisit it. There’s not much else to do for the rest of the period anyway, and it’s interesting to relish in one of his favorite scenes of the book for a second time.

Michael had almost been disappointed by the quiz, which mostly asked questions about names and hard facts. The essay question had been interesting, but it was already something he’d thought about plenty during his first reading of the text.

_Come on, Ramsey,_ he thinks to himself. _Is that all you got?_

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You got a HUNDRED?” Ray said with disbelief.  
> “No way,” Gavin said, and Ray had flipped the quiz to show Gavin the full credit mark at the top. “Jesus Michael,” Gavin said, “You’re a damn genius.”   
> “Are you sure it wasn’t just…” and Ray had pantomimed a blow job motion, complete with sound effects.   
> “Goddamn it Ray,” Michael had said. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to talk about this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter with East of Eden. I promise.

After the last bell has rung on Wednesday, Geoff returns to the large desk in his classroom. He’s just come from the teachers’ lounge, filling his thermos with the last of the hot coffee.

Burnie had pushed a box of doughnuts into his hands.

“Dude you seriously need to eat during the day,” Burnie said. “Fucked fridge or not.”

Geoff sets the mostly-empty box on his desk now, flipping it open to examine the day-old pastries. He won’t say no to free food at this point. Geoff pours a cup of black coffee from the thermos and selects a cruller.

It’s strange to have a teaching space that’s all his, Geoff thinks. At the university where he used to teach, professors were expected to carry everything they needed from anonymous classroom to anonymous classroom. Not that it mattered much to a literature professor, of course. All you needed were the books for the day.

Geoff had mostly taught 1000-level lit classes for incoming freshmen but sometimes he’d been able to snag a nice grad class when a tenured professor backed out at the last minute. After the day’s classes, he’d retire to his designated room in the Language Arts building to hold office hours--a type of open schedule where students could make an appointment and come by to talk to him about anything they wanted.

His office had been beyond tiny--not much more than a janitorial closet--but he’d been afforded one of the few windows in the building. It allowed him to peer out across a green towards the Performing Arts center and daydream. There was always something going on out there, whether it was BFA actors rehearsing lines and blocking or a scene design class spraypainting something.

He hadn’t done a lot to make the office “his” but over his six years at the university Geoff had accumulated plenty of stuff to fill the walls and bookshelf. Little offerings from his students. Cards thanking him for a recommendation letter. Fancy alcohol bottles collected on trips from grad students. Postcards. Ancient-looking books he’d received as gifts before graduations. Doodles of him, original poetry, movie posters, opera ticket stubs. His bulletin board in the room was layered like leaves on the floor of a forest with mementos, evidence of the impact he made on his students.

It had been sad to pack it all up, then, into an anonymous bankers box and push it into his hatchback on the last day of his last semester. He’d been at the college forever--gotten his undergrad degree there, then his MFA, and then his first job as an associate professor. So in a way Geoff felt like he’d never even graduated--just been a perpetual student, helping other students to succeed.

Leaving the university felt like a graduation, albeit a lonely one.

Geoff hasn’t brought any of the old mementoes from his office to his classroom, not knowing really what is and isn’t appropriate for high school classrooms. He’s ventured around the campus a bit in his first three days to see what other teachers there have done. Most rooms are decorated lavishly with posters and items illustrating the teacher’s given subject. Burnie’s studio wall, for example, is covered in giant movie posters and one wall is decorated with a mural depicting neon kung fu fighers that a class had painted for him a few years ago. Gus’ room has panoramic posters of South American countries and other Spanish-speaking destinations, complete with crystal clear water and sparking city skylines. It’s all very inviting.

So when it comes to decorating his own classroom in some way, he feels like he’s got an obligation to do so. But Geoff has no idea where to start.

Plus, the classroom is a far cry from his old office. It looks like something out of a movie and Geoff still isn’t used to walking into the room with its high ceilings, neat rows of desks, tall windows, and soaring views. His desk, which sits at the front of the class, is expansive, with a comfortable high-backed chair and a large computer monitor. An oversized whiteboard spans the wall facing the windows, which he’s yet to utilize. He could never get the hang of writing on a board, and he doesn’t have the patience for endless Powerpoint slides, so most of his teaching is done through straight lecture and discussion.

The high school kids are still getting used to it, naturally, but the complaints had died down by the end of the period on Wednesday after he assured them all that handouts were coming.

High schoolers are so suspicious, Geoff thinks. They treat everything he says with a surprising amount of caution, wanting to know what would be on the test, what they’d have to write essays about. Most of his class time that day had been spent reassuring his students that no matter what they were tested on, he’d use their class time _actually preparing them for their tests._

Is that not what most high school teachers do? Geoff wonders.

\-----

Everyone can agree that Mr. Ramsey’s class is fucking weird.

First off, the guy is sending totally mixed signals.

He’s all friendly on the first day, and then he hits them with a pop quiz on the second goddamn day of class. Then friendly again on Wednesday, assuring them up and down that he’s never going to give them an unfair test, that they’ll have tons of assignments where the only thing that’s important is to participate. He keeps on with this mantra that he just “wants to see them succeed.”

The fuck is that all about? Michael wonders.

Everyone is on edge.

The pop quiz proves to be a fucking disaster for most of the class, who had spent the entire period flipping from page to page trying to find this name or that detail that they had forgotten. But the essay question had been the real kicker. No one that Michael talked to had gotten full credit on it, even if they’d written their little hearts out, and most got a long paragraph written out by Ramsey in response, letting them know how badly they’d failed.

After school on Wednesday, Ray had read his feedback out loud to Michael and Gavin.

“‘Ray, your focus on Aron, while accurate to some extent, is too narrow and misses the overall scope of the novel. I hope you will revisit this question and give thought to the motifs that play out in Aron’s interactions with Cal, as well the dynamics in play with the characters surrounding Cal other than his father and brother,’” Ray quoted. “What the fuck even. How the fuck was anyone supposed to make this guy happy?”

“Mine’s not much better,” Gavin said. “I wrote all about Cal but he said that my analysis was ‘surface level’ and in the future I should ‘dig deeper into the text,’” Gavin continued, making air quotes.

“We’re gonna be so fucked in this class,” Ray said. “All this bullshit about being nice and preparing us for tests and then he grades like this? I mean, tell me what I need to do to pass and quit jerkin’ my dick. No pun intended Michael.”

“That’s… not even a pun,” Michael had said, shooting Ray a dirty look.

“What, are _you_ handing out fuckin grades now too?” Ray said. “Anyway, how’d you do?”

“D’rather not say,” Michael said. He hadn’t produced the pop quiz from his bag yet like Gavin and Ray had.

“What!” Gavin said, a look of mock outrage on his face. “We read you ours!”

Michael hadn’t wanted to make a big deal out of it. Really hadn’t wanted to discuss the class at all. Wasn’t there other more interesting shit to talk about? But at the risk of dragging out the conversation even longer, Michael had fished the graded pop quiz out of his bag and turned to the essay page.

“He wrote, ‘Hell of a nice analysis, Jones. Keep it up,’” Michael said.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ray said. “Let me see this,” and Ray had snatched the paper from Michael’s hands.

 _Jesus Christ,_ Michael had thought to himself. _Do we really and truly need to do this._

“You got a HUNDRED?” Ray said with disbelief.

“No way,” Gavin said, and Ray had flipped the quiz to show Gavin the full credit mark at the top. “Jesus Michael,” Gavin said, “You’re a damn genius.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just…” and Ray had pantomimed a blow job motion, complete with sound effects.

“Goddamn it Ray,” Michael had said. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to talk about this. Look, I didn’t miss any of the fill in questions and he just happened to like my analysis. I don’t think it had anything to do with anything.”

“Yeah Ray,” Gavin had said, feigning hurt at their friend. “Our boy’s a right scholar. You can’t be mad he actually did the reading, can ya?”

“Whatever, sure,” Ray had said. “Maybe you can tutor me on how to pass this fucking class then.”

\----

Class doesn’t get more straightforward for anyone on Thursday.

Geoff’s trying to get a discussion on East of Eden going, but he’s drowning. None of the students seem willing to engage.

Maybe the quiz had been too much. Maybe they weren’t ready for such a high level of feedback? Hell, Geoff thinks to himself. He’d already bungled the class he was the most excited about.

“What impact did you guys think the third person narration had on this story?” Geoff says, trying to get a conversation going. “You’re not going to be quizzed on this--we’re just talking right now… Nobody?”

Jordan raises his hand.

“Yeah, Jordan,” Geoff says, pointing.

“Third person narration as opposed to what?” Jordan asks.

“Well, as opposed to a first person narrative,” Geoff explains. “So, for example, what if the story had been told from Cal’s point of view using Cal’s voice instead of being told from the point of view of a narrator that isn’t a character.”

“It would’ve been a hell of a lot shorter,” Gavin says.

The class laughs.

“You’re right though Gavin!” Geoff says. “That’s what I mean when I say there’s not a wrong answer, ok? When you look at the characters in East of Eden, we see entire lifespans. If one character had been in charge of narration, it definitely would have been shorter because it could only span the time from that character’s first memory to their last.”

The class is nodding a little bit, not ready yet to talk but at least taking it in.

“Do you think Steinbeck was right to do it that way,” Geoff asks the class, “or would the book have been more efficient--and yes, shorter--if it had just taken one character’s point of view?”

The class just sits there. He’s lost them again.

God it’s like pulling fucking teeth.

“Come on,” Geoff begs, his voice cracking pathetically on purpose to convey just how badly he needs them to participate. “I promise there’s no wrong answer.”

Jones heaves a deep sigh from the front row and puts his hand in the air, not even looking at Geoff.

“Sure, Jones,” Geoff says.

“I mean, it definitely would have made the book shorter but then it would have been like every other book anyone has ever written,” Jones says.

“In what way?” Geoff asks.

“Well, that’s like… what we always have to read, right?” Michael says, reluctantly. “Like, you start out with some person telling a story from their point of view, some boring junk happens, and then the book is over. But when you tell it like in East of Eden, it’s just... a lot different, you know? It was a lot better.”

Finally, dear God, someone is on to some abstract thinking.

“Go on,” Geoff says, nodding.

“What do you want me to say?” Michael asks, peering into Geoff’s face, looking furious.

Geoff sighs.

“Just literally tell me: how did it make the book different?” Geoff explains. “Why did you like it better?”

“I guess in a normal book, you know who is important and who isn’t,” Michael says, earnestly thinking now. He’s got a pen in his mouth again and he talks around it as he forms a thought. “But with East of Eden, it was like… you didn’t even know who you were supposed to like, right? Like Cal seems like he’s going to be a jerk from the get go when he’s a little kid, and then it turns out he’s the most important character.”

“So, if the book had been from Cal’s point of view the whole time,” Geoff says, expanding on Michael’s thought, “as a reader you would have known that Cal was the main character. You’d have been rooting for him from the beginning.” Geoff is elated that a student is actually FINALLY engaging in some discussion.

“Yeah, exactly,” Jones says back, without prompting from Geoff. “Like, meeting that character was like when you meet someone in real life. There’s no expectation of whether or not you’re going to like this dude--you’re just randomly meeting him. But then you spend all this time with Cal and you get to know him and even if you thought he was a jerk at first, you’re like ‘damn I actually really care about this guy.’”

The world falls away from Geoff for a second, and Jones’ face immediately goes pale. The irony of what Jones has just said obviously hasn’t been missed by either party. Geoff sends out a silent prayer that Narvaez would cut a joke to break the tension. But Gavin ends up coming to their rescue.

“But is Cal even the hero though?” Gavin says, kicking back at his desk. “I rather liked Aron a lot more.”

“No way dude,” Ray cuts in “Aron is a tool. He thinks he has it all figured out but in reality he’s just a nerd with a god complex.”

“He’s a good guy though!” Lindsay throws in from the back of the class, entering the fray. “Like, you feel sorry for Cal because of the way their dad treats him, but without that context Aron is, like, not even a bad dude.”

And like that, the awkward moment is gone.

And from there, the discussion actually flows. Geoff barely has to talk for the rest of the period, simply guiding the discussion when it gets off course.

Jones won’t meet his eyes for the rest of the period, is totally absent from the discussion, and hits the door first when the bell rings.

\---

Michael’s phone buzzes all through second period with Burnie. When Burns is distracted, he takes his phone out and unlocks it. Ray has been texting him.

Ray: “so like what even was that”  
Ray: “were you two on a date just now or???”

Ray: “also can you seriously tutor me, i would like to graduate sometime this decade”  
Angry, Michael shoots back a text.

Michael: “i’m $200 an hour, no way you can afford someone who knows how to read”  
A reply comes back almost as quickly.  
Ray: “really? bc word on the street is you’ll work for oral”  
Michael: “you know what, maybe kerry can give me a ride home today”  
Ray: “come on man i’m kidding, i seriously need help, english is my worst class”  
Michael: “knock it off with your fucking jokes then”  
Michael: “how are you not getting fifty years of detention texting in heyman’s class btw”  
Ray: “heyman loves me idk what youre talking about”

\----

Much to Michael’s chagrin, Thursday’s class becomes a pattern.

Every day, Ramsey asks the class questions about the readings. The class apparently finds it impossible to get warmed up and actually speak. Ramsey’s pleading to get the discussion gets more and more pathetic...

And then Michael finds himself getting so fucking angry that no one else will talk that he ends up starting the discussion himself.

Each day, Michael speaks long enough to get completely self conscious and then clams up, or fucks up and says something stupid. Then Michael immediately hates himself for not sticking to his resolve about _not starting fucking discussions anymore_ and hits the door as soon as he can to escape how awkward each and every day in that class is.

Ray doesn’t rag on him anymore, at least. Everyone can see the wisdom in just letting Michael get so riled up that he talks. Because, apparently, nobody else has the balls to do it.

Fucking Ramsey and his stupid unconventional class.

But strangely, everyone seems to look forward to class with Ramsey. It isn’t an easy class, but it is at least something different. Ramsey himself is something different. Their reading is different.

And Michael hates how much he has come to actually look forward to the class each day, even as he hurtles inexorably towards his daily dose of public humiliation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoff’s dreams don’t start until the fourth week of school.
> 
> Like clockwork.
> 
> Because everything else had fallen into place by then for Geoff. So something had to get fucked up, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally explicit!

It’s a Tuesday in the end of September, now. The third week of class, chugging along. The reading overnight had been just one poem, “Song,” by Allen Ginsberg.

Michael doesn’t love the poem, really. It’s kind of cutesy, the way it’s been written, with lines like “the burden of life is love” and saying that you “must rest in the arms of love.” Kind of reads like a greeting card, as far as he’s concerned.

“When I was in high school,” Ramsey tells the class, not quite lecturing yet, “I really hated poetry. It either seemed totally random or it was ridiculously structured, like a sonnet.”

Ramsey is just talking to them as he unpacks. It seems like the teacher has a habit of doing this, and it blurs the lines between before-class time and official class time.

And yet--it’s not like Burns’ class, where Burns just acts like a glorified babysitter and lets them do whatever they want. The kids in Michael’s class seem captivated by Ramsey, never sure if he’s going to say something interesting or important or, as he’s let slip a few times, totally profane and hilarious. When he starts rambling like this, even if he isn’t talking about testing or reading, the class gives him more reverence than any teacher Michael’s ever seen.

“When I got to college, I ended up with the greatest poetry professor, and he would always read some of what we were studying out loud to the class. He had this booming voice. It made everything sound good, even if it was crap.”

Ramsey has unpacked a volume of poetry and his thermos of coffee. It seems like Michael has never seen him without the damn thermos. He wonders if Ramsey even washes it.

“This is the book I scanned for your handouts,” Ramsey explains. “If you ever want to borrow it for a project or whatever, just let me know. You’ll have a poem analysis due next week, so start thinking about what you enjoy and where you’re going to find a poem.”

The class starts to scuffle around to write this down but Ramsey dismisses them with a hand.

“All the details are on your syllabus. Don’t worry about writing it down right now. Anyway, I’ll read you the poem since it’s short.”

The class immediately goes silent.

“‘Song,’ by Allen Ginsberg,” Geoff announces, before diving into the poem:

 

‘The weight of the world

is love.

Under the burden

of solitude,

under the burden

of dissatisfaction

 

the weight,

the weight we carry

is love.

 

Who can deny?

In dreams

it touches

the body,

in thought

constructs

a miracle,

in imagination

anguishes

till born

in human--

looks out of the heart

burning with purity--

for the burden of life

is love,

 

but we carry the weight

wearily,

and so must rest

in the arms of love

at last,

must rest in the arms

of love.

 

No rest

without love,

no sleep

without dreams’

 

Ramsey finishes the poem unceremoniously and closes the book.

To Michael’s utter dismay, he’s crying.

He doesn’t know why--maybe it’s because he’d never heard anything like it read aloud? Maybe he’s overtired, didn’t sleep enough last night? He wishes he could disappear. Why the hell had this poem, so flat and dead on the page, made him _cry in public_ when read aloud?

“So,” Ramsey says, breaking the potent silence after he finished the poem, “hopefully that was better out loud than it was the first time you read it.”

A few students sigh heavily.

“Or… it was… actually the worst and you all are silently swearing off poetry right now?”

No one responds. Mr. Ramsey looks legitimately dismayed.

“God, this is like a bad first date you guys,” Ramsey says. “Was it really that bad?”

Michael’s classmates actually have the nerve to look at him, silently pleading for Michael to start the discussion so they won’t have to. Michael wouldn’t mind speaking, but his throat feels constricted and he’s still getting over whatever _moment_ he was having with that stupid fucking poem.

Finally Ray kicks Michael’s foot, frowning.

“No, Mr. Rasmey, it was, like, really a lot different to hear it out loud,” Michael says. His voice doesn’t break and he thanks God, Jesus, and every angel in heaven for that.

“Good different or bad different?” Ramsey asks.

“Good different, obviously,” Michael says, already exasperated.

“What’s different, then,” Ramsey says, “About hearing it instead of just reading it?”

Internally, Michael lets out a bitter laugh. What productive answer could he possibly offer at this point?

“In my head, the poem sounds stupid,” Michael starts, trying to formulate something that even halfway makes sense. “Like, last night I read about ‘resting in the arms of love’ and it sounded like something from a soap opera or whatever. But when you read it, it felt more alive, I guess?”

“Is there something specifically that changed your perception?” Ramsey asks.

 _Your ridiculous voice,_ Michael thinks to himself. _Your stupid fucking face,_ he thinks.

“The words look simple on the page,” Michael says, finally. “And I didn’t give Ginsberg any credit for what he’d written because it seemed like something any moron could write. But when you read it out loud, I guess anyone listening can tell that the whole poem was made with words chosen on purpose. There isn’t anything extra there--like, every single word is really important, even if it’s a simple word.”

“Diction,” Ramsey suggests. “You’re talking, basically, about diction.”

“Right, yeah,” Michael says. “It’s like looking at abstract art. You have to actually, like, decide to give credit where credit is due and not just tell yourself ‘I could do that.’ And I didn’t really GET that until you read it. You give voice to it and then it’s not just words on the page anymore, right? It’s like this… whole other living thing that just has a power that maybe you didn’t expect and it just socks you straight in the chest and--” and Michael realizes now that he’s rambling. And hates himself.

“Or I could be totally off base. I don’t know. I didn’t like it and then I did.”

He frowns and crosses his arms. He’s done talking for the day. Possibly for the decade.

\----

Geoff’s dreams don’t start until the fourth week of school.

Like clockwork.

Because everything else had fallen into place by then for Geoff. So something had to get fucked up, right?

He’d gotten his fridge fixed, unpacked the cardboard boxes, made the apartment feel like home.

He’d gotten all four of his classes off the ground, after a shaky phase with each group of students where they couldn't decide what to make of him.

He’d gotten to know some of his colleagues, was eating lunch sometimes with Gilby and Heyman, not relying on Gus and Burnie for every single human interaction during the day. Hell, he’d started actually eating lunch instead of being force fed something from the lounge or foregoing food entirely.

Geoff has let himself think, before the dreams start, that his life is going to continue on normally. That he’s landed a nice little job at a nice little school.

But when the dreams start, Geoff finally realizes the enormity of his mistake, the expansive aftermath of his decision that night in the bar.

 

In the first dream, it’s Jones on his knees in the bathroom, roughly pulling down Geoff’s fly, handling him through his briefs. Jones palms his erection and pants there on his knees with anticipation.

In the dream, they don’t talk at all. Jones works away slowly, mouth and hands busy on Geoff’s cock, and they continue undisturbed in the bar bathroom stall.

In the dream, Geoff moans his name, _Michael, Michael, Michael,_ as he fucks into the boy’s mouth before coming in spasms and feeling a relief that spans beyond orgasm, that reaches into every dark corner of Geoff’s mind, a relief that unburdens a weary part of him that he didn’t know existed.

In the dream, Jones looks up at Geoff, swipes a pale forearm across his smiling mouth.

That first night, Geoff startles awake as the dream concludes, burning with a hot sweat and an insistent erection.

He’s badly shaken. Geoff checks the time--3:14 a.m.

That first night, Geoff pours himself a shot of bourbon--and then another--and forces himself into the shower before going back to sleep.

 

In the second dream, on another night, Geoff finds himself sitting at his desk in his classroom--with Jones sitting in his lap. Geoff can feel the warm weight of the student in the deserted classroom and it makes his cock throb. Jones sits so casually, dressed in his school uniform, his legs draped on one side of Geoff’s chair, smiling so beautifully at Geoff.

“I don’t want to be ignored, Mr. Ramsey,” Jones whispers in his ear. The student kisses his earlobe, behind his ear, his neck--so gently. Something unfurls in Geoff’s chest.

“I don’t want to ignore you, Michael,” Geoff says softly in the dream.

“Then don’t,” Jones says. Then the student stands and repositions himself to straddle Geoff’s lap.

He meets Jones’ eyes then, trying to understand what he sees there, wondering what Jones must see staring back at him. Geoff moves to kiss his student, slowly and deeply, enjoying the weight of him, the warmth and closeness of him. How easily he fits himself into Geoff like a puzzle piece.

They finish the kiss, and Jones leans into him, resting his head on Geoff’s shoulder, letting go of a deep breath. In the dream, Geoff feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room and in that moment he thinks I love the boy before jolting like electricity into consciousness, out of the dream.

Waking up that second night is much worse. The hot shame that courses through Geoff is tempered by the awareness that he is utterly alone. Alone in his life, alone with this burden.

He sips a bourbon. He forces himself into the shower. It’s only 2 a.m. when he lies back down, begins to sleep.

 

The third dream doesn’t wait for a third night. It happens as soon as he slips again into unconsciousness.

And when Geoff begins to dream again that same night, he’s still there with Jones in the abandoned classroom, but the dream is no longer soft-edged and hazy with love.

Geoff finds himself fucking his student loudly over the front of his classroom desk. Both of them are making a commotion, Jones pouring out combinations of curse words that had never in a million years occurred to Geoff. Jones grabs with one hand at the desk, scattering papers and notebooks, a cup full of pens crashing to the floor.

“Mr. Ramsey,” Jones chokes out, stroking his own dick as Geoff thrusts into his ass with abandon, “I’m gonna--Fucking, godDAMN it, I’m gonna--”

“Oh Christ Michael,” Geoff says, fucking into Jones as hard as he can without a second thought, “I want you to come,” Geoff says. “Come for me Michael.”

Jones obeys, grunting and unloading against the front of Geoff’s desk, his ass spasming around Geoff’s cock. Geoff launches into orgasm at this, his vision going strange and his world exploding until it’s just fractals of pleasure expanding out into every corner of his mind as his body feebly jerks into his student in the aftershocks of orgasm. They’re both spent and they slowly disengage, Geoff placing a pattern of soft kisses down Jones’ spine.

“Goddamn, Michael,” he whispers.

The student reaches to pick up his school uniform shirt from the ground and gestures to Geoff’s spattered desk.

“Sorry about that,” Jones says, suddenly far away as Geoff is yanked from the dream and back into reality with the visceral panic that he’s missed the last step in a flight of stairs.

Geoff’s whole body jerks as he wakes up.

  
He doesn’t sleep a lot, after that.


	6. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude

**English 12 Journaling Assignment, Due Oct. 1st**

**Imagine yourself in the shoes of a fictional character or real author and finish this sentence:**

**“I worry about…”**

 

Michael chooses Cal, naturally. He writes two pages in his class journal about the man’s internal struggle between good and evil.

But if Michael kept a diary of his own, a journal he didn’t have to turn in to anyone for a grade, he’d have answered the question himself, from his own point of view.

And as he sits down with his homework, he thinks through what his own answer would be.

“I worry about where I’m going to go to college. I worry about actually passing this year. I worry about looking like a complete asshole in Discrete Math, even though Ellis is really nice, even though it’s a total blow off of a class for morons who can’t do math. I worry that everyone knows that it’s the most softball class you could ask for to finish up a math requirement and I’m still not going to be able to pass it.

“I worry about English 12. A lot. I worry that I’m losing my fucking mind because the longer we go without talking about what happened, the more I feel like maybe I just dreamed it up. I worry that this year is going to get away from me and I’m never going to get to have an actual conversation with Ramsey. I worry about finishing and sitting here in Chewelah for the rest of my life. And I worry about graduation coming and then never seeing him again.

“I worry about Ramsey fucking up my life too. I worry about him finding out that I never lied to my friends and finding a way to fail me. I worry about him deciding that I’m too much of a liability. I worry about being a fucking nineteen year old in senior high still.

“I worry about what I’ll do after graduation. I worry that I don’t have any real skills other than playing pool and fucking with people and I worry that I don’t have any real interests other than fucking around with Gavin, Ray, and Kerry and making movies. I worry about moving out of my parents’ house as soon as possible but I worry about where the hell that money is going to come from. I worry about the kind of fallout I’m going to get if I don’t get into college, but I also worry about what kind of insane student loans I’m going to end up if I _do_ get in, because I’m sure as shit not going to get a scholarship.

“I worry that Ramsey hates me. I worry that he must think I’m a fucking psychopath or a nymphomaniac or something. I worry that he really thinks I took advantage of him. I worry that he regrets that night. I worry that he regrets being my teacher. I worry that he wishes he’d never met me. “

\----

On Wednesday night, Geoff sits down to peruse the journals that the students had turned in. He doesn’t really grade them--just flips through, makes sure they wrote something and followed the prompt and marks it down in his grade book.

He almost has a hard time reading Jones’ entries--or grading his work at all. He’s developed such a soft spot for the student, the only student he has who is willing to go out on a limb and talk about what they’re reading. Despite Jones’ utter lack of confidence in his own ability to analyze literature, the student is constantly surprising Geoff with his insights.

Yet...

At the same time, Geoff feels an almost visceral an aversion to him.

 _Don’t get too close,_ Geoff thinks all the time.

And when Geoff finds himself thinking about Jones without realizing it, and when he finds himself laughing easily and having a conversation about literature with Jones in front of a classroom full of students, something animal in Geoff’s belly yells “DANGER. RUN.”

He can’t be the boy’s confidant, can’t be his mentor. Can’t trust himself to grade his student without bias.

Can’t trust himself, even, to make eye contact with Jones anymore, out of paranoia and ungrounded fear that Jones will see him and just KNOW. Geoff’s dreams, unbidden. Geoff’s subconscious preoccupation.

Geoff flips through pages of journals and thinks to himself what his own entry would look like.

“I worry about being the type of person who is actively ruining two lives simultaneously: mine and Jones’. I worry about being the type of person who seduces someone who turns out to be a teenager (albeit a legal one). I worry about what would’ve happened if Narvaez hadn’t been waiting outside for Jones that night.

“I worry that I’m not cut out for high school teaching. I worry that these kids have better backgrounds than I do. I worry that these kids think I’m a moron.

“I worry that every teacher other than Gus and Burnie actually hates me. I worry that I stick out like a sore thumb at work, in Chewelah, everywhere I go lately.

“I worry about Jones hating me--if not now, then in twelve years when he’s thirty and he looks back at me and realizes what a piece of shit I always was, despite what he may think now.

“I worry that I drink too much. All the time. I worry that I can’t seem to find the motivation to stop.

“I worry that my apartment is a piece of shit and the kitchen is too small to cook fuckall. I worry that I’m actually forgetting to cook. I worry because I can’t remember whether or not I brushed my teeth today, or when the last time I got my oil changed was. I worry what my old students back at the university must be doing, whether or not they feel like I just up and abandoned them--for what? A bunch of rich high school kids? Fuck.”


	7. Chapter 7

Halfway through October, Ryan Haywood comes back.

 

It’s not exactly the most opportune day for Geoff, who’s been up half the night chasing nightmares with whiskey.

But there’s a stranger waiting at the door to Geoff’s classroom before first period when Geoff walks up. Too old to be a student, maybe too young to be a teacher. Seems 24 or 25, but he’s dressed like a teacher--all neat dark slacks, shined shoes, and crisp shirt buttoned at the cuffs.

“You must be Geoff Ramsey,” the man says, extending a hand. He’s grinning like the cat who ate the canary. Geoff shakes his hand firmly. “I’m Ryan Haywood--taught this group last year--”  
“Haywood, sure, I know who you are,” Geoff says, only half awake, not sure what to think of the stranger. “Come on in. Visiting your old digs?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ryan says, following Geoff through the door. This was Haywood’s classroom before Geoff moved in, but Geoff had never gotten a chance to meet his predecessor.

“Sorry to show up like this unannounced,” Ryan says, taking a seat at a desk in the front row. “I was in town for the weekend, thought maybe I could stop by and say hello before I headed back to class this evening.”

“That’s right,” Geoff says, remembering what he’d heard from other teachers about Haywood. “You’re studying, what, medieval literature?” Geoff asks.

“Yeah, decided last year to go back to school and do some doctoral work,” Ryan says. “You know, just trying to land one of those incredibly high-paying Middle English professorial jobs,” he says with an easy laugh.

Geoff chuckles at that.

“You know I used to--”

“Yeah, teach at the university,” Ryan says. “I’m surprised our paths never crossed, to be honest.”

“I wasn’t teaching much Chaucer,” Geoff says. “‘Ye ser speke wunderlude de der de dete,’” Geoff says in a parody of Middle English. “No offense but that shit makes me go cross eyed after a few pages.”

Ryan gives him another easy laugh.

“None taken. It’s not for everyone.”

“Well, you want to stay for class? I assume it’s pretty much the same kids as you had last year,” Geoff says.

“I’ll at least say hi,” Ryan says. “I don’t want to disrupt your entire class period. But maybe you’ll join me for lunch? You eat fourth period--with the seniors, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Geoff says.

Geoff feels a fleeting moment of awkwardness, sitting in the classroom with Haywood. The man is all smooth skin and bright, animated features. Everything about Haywood’s attitude and clean cut good looks, Geoff thinks, stands in stark contrast to Geoff’s own appearance, with his already-wrinkled broadcloth shirt pushed up to the elbows, unkempt facial hair, and admittedly fowl early morning mood. It wasn’t surprising that most of the staff snuck Geoff dirty looks if this is the kind of all-American boy-next-door overachiever he replaced.

Geoff offers Ryan some coffee (which he declines) and busies himself with class prep to avoid too much awkward small talk. Finally the bell signalling the end of homeroom rings and the hallway comes to life with the sounds of students shuffling en masse to their next destinations.

A few students file into Geoff’s classroom, and Geoff watches their faces as each one immediately zeroes in on Haywood. A surprised ‘Hey! Mr. Haywood!’ and high five from Caleb. Giant bear hugs from Barbara and Lindsay. A wide grin and fist bump from Jordan. Each student greets Ryan before respectfully taking their seats.

Gavin arrives like a freight train, tumbling into Ryan before Geoff even sees that the student is in the room.

“Ryan!” Gavin announces before tackling the man, almost knocking him back onto his ass.

“Gavin, Jesus Christ,” Ryan says. “Missed me?”

“Ryan! It’s Ryan!” Gavin breaks from the hug. “You have to tell us everything! How is class? Oh, you look grand! Are you a doctor yet?” Without waiting for the man to respond, Gavin is back out in the hall, shouting to someone still out of sight.

“Lads, you’ll never guess who’s here!”  
“Ryan’s here. We could hear you from fucking Mars, Gavin,” Jones shouts from somewhere down the hall. Geoff smirks at that.

Gavin is already back to Ryan acting like an over excited puppy, shaking Ryan’s hand and asking him questions as other students file in behind him. Jones and Narvaez enter next, Jones smiling warmly and immediately approaching the man.

“What’s up, Ryan,” Jones says through a grin, extending his hand. “Thought you were gone for good.”

“Michael!” Ryan says, ignoring his hand and embracing the student in a rough hug. “I’m hurt! Why did everyone think I was going to abandon them?”

Ray is still standing cooly in the doorway, Geoff notices.

“Ryan the ‘I’m seriously not abandoning you,’ guy,” Ray says, deadpan.

“Come on, Ray,” Ryan says, releasing Jones finally from his embrace, roughing up the boy’s hair. “You know you were always my favorite Ray, right?”

Ray makes an exaggerated frown at the man.

“Raaay,” Ryan says, drawing his name out. “I’m here visiting, just like I promised, right?”

“Yeah try telling that to Ray’s diary,” Jones says. Narvaez shoots him a dirty look. “‘Dear Diary,’” Jones says in his best parody of Ray. “‘One hundred and ninety eight days without Ryan and he still hasn’t answered any of my fifty voicemails. Do you think he’s breaking up with me?’”

Ryan and Gavin laugh hard at this, and after a second the tension is broken and Ray laughs too.

“That sounds nothing like me,” Ray says. “Kill yourself.”

“Ray please,” Jones shoots back.

Ray finally makes his way to Ryan, shakes his hand.

“Hey thanks for the eight thousand pages of summer reading you left us with, asshole,” he says.

“Narvaez. Language?” Geoff says, virtually forgotten at the front of the classroom.

Ray clears his throat and ducks his head down in deference to Geoff before taking his normal seat next to Michael and Gavin.

“Wow, the three of you in one class,” Ryan says, surveying the three students. “That seems like a recipe for disaster.”

“Not so, Ryan,” Gavin says in his best serious voice. “You’ll be happy to know we take our studies very seriously this year. And Michael’s basically a literature genius so far as I can tell.”

“Oh yeah, Michael?” Ryan says, genuinely curious. “So I take it you actually, like, read the texts this year?”

“Yeah, well,” Jones says, blushing. “It helps that you assigned us reading that wasn’t a bunch of bullshit. Even if you didn’t do it until after you were _gone_ forever.”

“So you liked Steinbeck?” Ryan asks, obviously pleased.

“East of Eden was legit the best book ever,” Jones says.

More students are edging in now and Ryan is blocking their way, so the man drops into a squat next to Jones’ desk. The two of them are talking back and forth now, too low for Geoff to hear over the din. And although he can’t hear what they’re saying, he can’t help but to notice how easily they speak to one another, how informally. And the laughter that flows between them. Jones jiggles his leg nervously and Ryan bounces lightly on the balls of his feet. Geoff feels like the classroom is about ten degrees too hot. The bell rings.

\----

After a short and unneeded introduction, Geoff gets to watch Ryan Haywood interact with more of his students.

The young man is obviously incredibly well-liked, with no one giving him a sour glance (other than Narvaez, every once and a while, Geoff realizes). While Geoff has to pull teeth to get anyone to talk, hands shoot into the air to ask Ryan questions--about what he’s studying, about what his thesis is going to be on, about when he’ll earn his doctorate, about what grad school is like.

The conversation even rolls around to actual literature, Ryan somehow managing to captivate them with a description of the medieval texts he’s currently working with.

Twenty minutes in, Geoff scraps his lesson plan and decides he’s just going to let Haywood teach the whole period since the class apparently loves him so much.

Thirty minutes in, Haywood has produced a book and is reading to the rapt classroom in Middle English. Geoff finishes off the last of his cold, black coffee.

Forty minutes in, the class has learned basic Middle English grammar and is repeating phrases back to Haywood in between laughter. Geoff is beginning to regret all of the coffee as his stomach turns.

When the bell finally rings, Haywood spins to Geoff with an apology in his eyes.

“I… totally lost track of time,” Haywood says. “I’m so sorry.”

Students are already filing out of the class.

“I totally did not mean to take your entire class,” the man continues, almost pleading. Geoff offers him a smile.

“It’s not a big deal,” he says. “It was nice to get a break, actually.”

“Thanks so much, Geoff,” Ryan says. “It feels good to see them all again. You never realize how much you’re going to miss a class until they’re gone, I guess.”

\---

Geoff invites Ryan to stay for his second period English 12 class, but the man declines, insisting he promised he’d visit a few other staff members, but again asking if Geoff would join him for lunch before disappearing down the hallway.

Geoff shouldn’t let the first period with Haywood bother him as much as it does. But it’s not difficult to see the stark differences between the way that Geoff is received by his students and the way that Ryan was.

\---

By fourth period lunch, Geoff realizes how much he’d rather pour himself a few more cups of coffee in the lounge and forgo lunch instead of making his way across campus to the canteen. But he has the feeling that Haywood might just be the type of guy to come find him if he doesn’t show up, so he slings his bag across his back and begins the trek over for lunch.

When Geoff arrives a few minutes into the lunch period, he easily spots Ryan. The man is holding court, surrounded not only by students but by pizza boxes. Not crappy canteen pizza, either--nice delivery stuff, ordered from the outside world. Geoff hadn’t been planning on eating his lunch with students but it’s obviously too late to say no now, with Ryan enthusiastically waving him over as soon as the man has spotted him.

Ryan looks less like a teacher and more like, maybe, the captain of the football team, the lead in a musical production, surrounded by his group of smiling, laughing seniors. Geoff knows each student around the table by name: Gavin, Ray, Lindsay, Kerry, Caleb, Barbara, and, to Geoff’s dismay, Jones. Jones looks thoroughly unhappy to see Geoff. There’s only one empty chair at the table, situated between Ryan and Jones.

“Saved you a seat,” Ryan says, gesturing to the chair. “I hope you like pizza.”

“Who doesn’t like pizza?” Geoff says, unhooking his bag and taking the chair, feeling slightly ambushed. He leans to take a piece of pizza from one of the greasy boxes.

“Geoff, I have to apologize again,” Ryan says to him confidentially in between bites of pizza. “I really didn’t mean to hijack your class.”

“It’s seriously no problem, Ryan,” Geoff says. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that once you get a class talking, it’s best not to put the brakes on.”

“Mr. Ramsey, we _always_ talk,” Gavin protests from across the table.

“You mean Ramsey and Michael always talk,” Ray shoots from next to Gavin. Ray winces then--someone has kicked him under the table.

“It’s not my fault none of you other assholes do the reading,” Jones says, shooting daggers at Gavin and Ray.

“It sounds like you’re quite the literature scholar this year,” Ryan says, leaning out to look at Jones. “Something monumental must have happened over the summer.”

Michael and Geoff simultaneously clear their throats while Gavin, Ray, and Kerry become intensely interested in their pizza.

“Anyway,” Jones says. “I’m sure there’s something more interesting than this to talk about.”

“I’m just teasing you Michael,” Ryan says, trying to smooth over whatever faux pas he has apparently stumbled upon. “You were a good student in my class, too.”

“Yeah but your class was easy,” Gavin postests. “You don’t know how it is with Mr. Ramsey!”

“Oh? And how _is_ it with Mr. Ramsey, Gavin?” Geoff says, not sure exactly how to joke with the students. He’s never had a casual conversation with any of them--not like this.

Gavin hazards a grin at him.

“You’re just hard, is all,” Gavin says. “You want us to read and think about everything and talk about it in class.”

“God, how unreasonable,” Ramsey says, rolling his eyes.

“You just don’t care if we remember names and dates and all,” Gavin continues. “It’s a lot different, I guess.”

“Ah, sounds like a true college professor,” Ryan says, sharing a reassuring smile with Geoff. “Well Michael, you should be proud you can survive in a setting like that. You’ll be ready for a college classroom.”

It’s Jones’ turn to roll his eyes.

“Seriously, Jones,” Geoff says, gently. “You should be proud that you can carry the discussion on your shoulders every day. You shouldn’t feel bad about being at the top of my class.”

Jones just frowns deeper.

“Does that mean Michael is doing better than me?” Lindsay asks from the end of the table, apparently eavesdropping.

“Ramsey already said he doesn’t share grades, Lindsay,” Michael shoots, leaning in to peer at her. “But probably, yeah!” She sticks her tongue out at him and laughs.

\---

Towards the end of the period, Ryan begins making his goodbyes. He promises to visit again soon, exchanges personal email addresses with Geoff, shares hug after hug with his former students.

“Next time I’ll email you instead of just showing up on your doorstep,” he says to Geoff shaking his hand.

“Nah, just show up,” Geoff says. “Especially if you bring pizza.”

Geoff can see why his students like Ryan. Ryan has somehow mastered the skill of joking mercilessly with his students without ever stepping out of line and saying something truly hurtful or inappropriate. He’s also smart as a whip, smarter and more mature than Geoff had expected out of someone Ryan’s age. Just sitting next to the man and shooting the shit with his students has made Geoff feel more at ease at the school than he has all year, Geoff realizes. It’s a shame he’s not staying in Chewelah. Geoff gathers up his bag to leave, thinking about his last two classes for the day.

“Ray, you got a sec to help me with some stuff out at my car?” Ryan asks, behind him.

Geoff stops at the bathroom, running cool water over his hands, massaging the bridge of his nose for a moment before stepping out into the brisk air. He feels like he can take a deep breath for the first time since he arrived on campus.

Over in the parking lot, he sees Ryan and Ray standing at Ryan’s car, turned into each other, looking serious. Heyman passes Geoff quickly, without a word, striding past him towards the parking lot. Geoff gazes after him, wondering whether or not Joel knew Ryan from when he taught there last year--but he stops concentrating on them. Someone’s calling out to Geoff, steps crunching through gravel behind him. It’s Jones and Gavin, trotting to catch up to him.

“Hey, hang on,” Gavin says.

The two of them are smiling and for once Jones doesn’t seem horrified to share the same oxygen with Geoff.

“Mr. Ramsey,” Gavin says, “D’you have any of those poetry books left you can lend us?”

“Oh you mean for the assignment due _tomorrow_?” Geoff says.

“See, I told you we should just go to the library--” Jones says to Gavin, beginning to turn away.

“You know full well we’ve already been to the library and all the poetry books there are crap, Michael,” Gavin pouts. “We’ll get the homework done, Mr. Ramsey. Please?”

“Yeah, we just need something to work with,” Jones says. “Like, something not written in goddamn couplets, maybe?”

Geoff frowns at him.

“I know, _language_ , got it, I’ll put my entire life savings into my fucking swear jar ok?” Jones shoots.

Geoff sighs, not entirely unhappy that Jones is joking with him, even if the two students are sorely late on starting the poetry analysis assignment.

“Yeah, yeah,” Geoff says, finally. “You have time to come look at what I have before your next class?”

“We’ve both got free period after lunch, actually,” Gavin says. “Ray too, but he already has a poem.”

“Follow me, then,” Geoff says. “I’m sure we can come up with something.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have the sneaking suspicion that I'm setting this up for a story about High School!Ray with Joel and Ryan, then you are absolutely correct. 
> 
> It will be in a different story that takes place over the same time period in the same universe from those characters' points of view. But not until I finish this. Stay tuned.


	8. Chapter 8

Michael has been fiddling with his phone ever since they arrived in Ramsey’s classroom. Ramsey and Gavin are busy sorting through a stack of paperbacks in the back corner of the room, and Michael eavesdrops absentmindedly as the teacher tries to find something to actually interest his student.

That’s the weirdest thing about Ramsey, Michael thinks. Any other teacher would treat them like they were shit out of luck for waiting so long to find a poem for their assignment, but here’s Ramsey, using his break time to dig through volumes of poetry for Gavin. Truly looking for a poet that would be interesting for his student and not just assigning him something.

“Well here’s a thought,” Michael hears Ramsey say. “If you really want something different.”

“What language is this even?” Gavin asks. “It sounds like Bob Marley lyrics.”

“It’s Jamaican patois. I’m sure you can sort it out, and at least it would be something unusual,” Ramsey says. Michael hears pages flipping.

“‘Wen yuh see she walk, holdin freedom water, balance pon she head,’” Gavin reads aloud.

Michael snickers at his accent mixing in the patois.

“Shut up Michael. This is brilliant,” Gavin says. “I didn’t know anyone wrote, you know, poetry like this.”

“Do you want to try your hand at that? If you don’t like either of those, I have a whole volume of Jean Binta Breeze here somewhere,” Ramsey says, trailing off, shuffling through more books. “Here--’Riddyum Ravings’--you’ll like this. Just make sure when you’re writing that you talk about why it might be important that it’s written in a patois and think about the context she’s writing in. And please don’t cite Wikipedia this time.”

“Thanks Mr. Ramsey. This is loads better than anything we were coming up with in the library,” Gavin says.

That means it’s Michael’s turn. Michael’s leg is jiggling so hard he feels like he might launch out into the atmosphere.

Gavin returns to the front of the class where Michael is sitting and takes a desk next to him. He’s flipping through pages intently. As far as Michael is concerned, Ramsey is a goddamned magician. He actually found poetry that Gavin fucking Free will read voluntarily. Get this man an award.

Ramsey is still at the back of the classroom shuffling though paperbacks and Michael is silently thankful that the man hasn’t turned his attention to Michael yet. Michael has spent the entire semester wishing he could speak one on one with the man--but now that it’s about to become a reality, Michael feels a sense of dread.

Exchanging even a few verbal jabs with the teacher at lunch had kicked something loose inside of Michael, and although it beats the stifled way he’s felt for the past two months, it’s not entirely comfortable. It ignites something in the pit of his consciousness--the same feeling he had that night in the bar: talk now, strike something up, don’t let this person get away from you quite yet.

But he knows more about the man now than he did that night in the bar, Michael thinks to himself. The man who was once a handsome and unusual stranger is now Geoff Ramsey. The stranger who flirted with him, practically felt him up in a bar full of people, now has a name. The man who bent him over a pool table has a history.

Yet, oddly, Ramsey is more of a mystery to Michael now than he was that night. He was less of a conundrum when he was just a horny stranger buying him drinks, an easy mark to be had at the pool table. After the threats, the ultimatum, the two had continued on in this strange relationship, never learning any more about one another but talking to each other five days a week. Having, Michael realized, some of the most intimate and thought provoking conversations he’d ever had.  

He thinks of Ramsey outside of class, of course. It would be impossible not to remember the sensory reality of that night, more real than any dream or fantasy Michael could ever conjure up. The heavy weight of the man, half drunk, the smell of bourbon, the strange sensation of sharing a rough kiss with someone who has facial hair. The details come unbidden to Michael’s mind often enough--as vague impressions in his dreams, vivid memories as he strokes himself off in the shower.

But he thinks of Ramsey beyond that, even. There’s something magnetic about the man now beyond the very basic intrigue of animal attraction. And when Michael’s mind begins to drift as sleep tugs at his consciousness, he often finds his thoughts on their conversations from the day, echoes of poetry and prose. How thrilling it had been, Michael thinks, to finally connect with something at school. Each day Ramsey pushes him further, challenging him to engage with art. And each day Michael feels something more grow and unfurl inside of him. An interior life he never knew was there, maybe.

Michael has often thought that if it weren’t for their history, he’d spend all the time he could at school with Ramsey, picking his brain, discussing what he wanted to discuss without the ever-present audience of the 18 other students in class. He would love to have a conversation with the man--a real goddamn conversation for once, not just Michael talking and Ramsey asking questions. What the hell had Ramsey studied in college? Who were his favorite authors? Does he write or just study writing? Where had he come from and why and how had he gotten here and was he planning on staying? What the fuck did it mean when Ramsey wrote feedback on his journals about Michael’s “rich inner life” and “insight beyond his years?”

When Ramsey clears his throat directly behind Michael, Michael jumps as if he’s been dealt a physical blow. He was so deep in thought about the man that he’s instantly embarrassed, his heart beating hard, even though he knows the teacher has no way of telling what he was thinking about.

“Jones, if you want something else we can look through what I have back there,” Ramsey says to him, sitting down casually at the desk on the other side of Michael. His voice is high with excitement. “But with the way you talked about Ginsberg the other day, I think you might really like some of the poems in here.”

Ramsey hands him a badly beat up paperback. _Josephine Miles, Collected Poems, 1930-1983._ The teacher’s blue eyes are dancing, Michael thinks, realizing the man looks more animated than he’s ever seen.

“I actually meant to give this to you before but,” and at this Ramsey trails off. “Anyway. I’ve been thinking since class that day that this poet would be right up your alley.”

“I wasn’t aware I even had an alley--poet-wise,” Michael says, flipping through the book.

“Right, someone who tears up listening to a Ginsberg poem isn’t at all interested in poetry,” Ramsey says, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms in front of him. Michael gives him a half frown. He thought no one had noticed, and this piece of information, which Ramsey had apparently filed away, was not something Michael was eager to think about.

“Jesus, that look again,” Ramsey says, panic edging into his voice. “Sorry--I’m sorry. I think you’ll like some of this. It’s OK to like poetry. I’m really not trying to be an asshole.” The teacher pushes back from the desk, starting to stand.

“Ramsey,” Michael says curtly. “Language?”

The man barks a laugh at that and Michael smiles.

“Don’t let word get out that you got a hand-picked book to choose a poem from, Jones,” he says. “The last thing I need to be accused of right now is playing favorites.” The man is smiling broadly. Michael isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be taking any part of this conversation at more than face value.

“No worries,” Michael says, deciding to read into the man’s words. “I’m great with secrets.”

Ramsey frowns at that. A misstep, Michael thinks.

“Make sure you bring that back,” Ramsey says.

The mirth is gone from the man’s face, replaced by something dark and hard, as he turns and makes his way back to the desk at the front of the classroom.

 

\----

 

It isn’t until Michael gets home that night that he realizes the book Ramsey has given him is not just a random text he had at the back of the classroom. The collection of poems is heavily annotated in handwriting Michael recognizes as his teacher’s, pages dogeared and spine badly broken. It’s something that Ramsey has clearly studied in depth, a volume he’s spent plenty of time with.

Fucking lovely, Michael thinks. I’m supposed to analyze a poem for someone who is already an expert on the entire goddamn book.

Anxiety weighs heavily on Michael as he flips through the pages, trying to find something that resonates with him. Miles’ writing is really much harder than Ginsberg, Michael thinks. The words are simple enough but they’re woven together like a nasty little trap, thick with allusions to things Michael only half-understands.

And then there’s the added layer of expectation, there--because Ramsey had been thinking, apparently, about how much Michael would enjoy the poetry within that volume. Evidence, at least, that Ramsey thought about him when he wasn’t around. But it had never occurred to Michael before that he might actually disappoint his teacher, a fact which suddenly feels like a more upsetting eventuality than failing the course.

 _Christ my head is wrecked,_ Michael thinks.

Finally after a fruitless search, Michael decides to simply open the book to a page at random and get started. Any essay, at this point, would be better than nothing.

The page begins with a poem titled “Physiologus.” Michael reads it aloud to himself.

 

> “When the mind is dark with the multiple shadows of facts,  
> There is no heat of the sun can warm the mind.  
> The facts lie streaked like the trunks of trees at evening,  
> Without the evening hope that they may find  
> Absorbent night and blind.
> 
> “Howsoever sunset and summer bring rest  
> To the rheumatic by change, and howsoever  
> Sulphur’s good medicine, this can have no cure--  
> This weight of knowledge dark on the brain is never  
> To be burnt out like fever,
> 
> “But slowly, with speech to tell the way and ease it,  
> Will sink into the blood, and warm, and slowly  
> Move in the veins, and murmur, and come at length  
> to the tongue’s tip and the finger’s tip most lowly,  
> And will belong to the body wholly.”

 

Michael feels like he’s coming apart inside, the rest of the world falling away. Quickly, he reads the poem again. Then a third time. It’s uncanny--a poem written decades ago putting his swirling internal turmoil into words. So succinct. All it takes is three little stanzas to sort out the whole of two months of chaos in his head.

Has he missed the point? He probes, trying to be objective. Is he projecting his own feelings too heavily onto the work?

But the reality stares back at him from the poem. “This weight of knowledge dark on the brain is never/ To be burnt out like fever”--he reads the lines over and over.

It’s the point of no return. Michael opens a blank document on the computer monitor in front of him and begins to type.

\----

**Excerpts from**

**_‘Secrets as Sickness in Josephine Miles’ “Physiologus”’_ **

**_by Michael Jones_ **

> _Poet Josephine Miles uses a variety of symbols when discussing truth in her poem, “Physiologus,” primarily comparing secrets to sickness. Her goal in this simile is to show the negative impact of secrets on a person and, at the end, to show how a person can be healed by facing reality._
> 
> _[...]_
> 
> _In the second stanza of the poem Miles writes that arthritis can be eased by changing seasons and by sulphur, but continues to say that secret facts “can have no cure.” Miles continues on to discuss secrets as if they are a cancer that “will sink into the blood” and “move in the veins.”_
> 
> _The poet makes it clear through these negative associations that she is talking about an unacknowledged fact or a truth that has not been recognized. Instead of illuminating reality or providing knowledge, this type of secret makes “the mind… dark” and has a “weight… on the brain.”_
> 
> _Though she never states it on the page, the implication is that secrets that go unacknowledged and undiscussed have a negative impact on those who hold the secret--just as an untreated cancer or a sickness can kill its host._
> 
> _[...]_
> 
> _While the first and second stanzas establish these secrets as negative and harmful, the third stanza could be viewed as more optimistic. Rather than seeing facts as a metastasizing cancer, there is an implication that a person can find relief from the negativity of secrets if they face the facts. When a secret is faced, in other words, it can “belong to the body wholly” and a person can continue with their life._
> 
> _She writes about the transition of a fact from a secret to an acknowledged truth, going from cold to a warm sensory imagery. In the first stanza, Miles writes that “no heat of the sun can warm the mind” that holds a secret. Then, in the last stanza she writes that “with speech to tell the way and ease it” a fact when expressed “will sink into the blood, and warm…” the body and mind. Secrets take warmth, in other words, and truth provides it._
> 
> _Miles avoids the cliche sentiment that the truth can set you free, but in her poem she points to the same idea. Rather that focusing on the positive effects of telling the truth, Miles chooses to discuss in simple words how harmful--even deadly--it is to ignore a fact that begs to be brought to light._

\---

Here goes fucking nothing, Michael thinks, printing out the document. If this doesn’t get him a moment alone with Ramsey, he’s not sure what it will take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone ought to read some Josephine Miles if you get the chance. Her poetry is quite lovely and mostly out of print, but you can find cheap used volumes of hers on Amazon. Jean Binta Breeze is still living and producing poetry, which is widely available online. Patois poetry fucking rocks. /secret literature lessons inserted into fanfiction/


	9. Chapter 9

When Geoff arrives at his classroom the next morning, there is a document, a book, and a brown paper bag on his desk. None of the individual classrooms have locks on them and any of his students could’ve left the items, but Geoff knows before he even gets close that it was Jones.

He sets down his thermos, his bag, and picks up the document first.

He reads the title: ‘Secrets as Sickness in Josephine Miles’ “Physiologus”’

Secrets as Sickness, Geoff repeats in his head. His stomach drops, as if no longer bound by the normal rules of gravity. Without reading any more, Geoff places the document back down onto his desk. The book is his copy of Miles’ volume of poetry, returned just as he had asked. Next he investigates the brown paper bag. Inside of the bag, there’s a sandwich, a grocery store cookie wrapped in a paper towel, and two peppermints. No explanation. Nothing to even indicate that the food is for him--and Geoff wonders if Jones accidentally forgot to take his lunch with him when he dropped off the paper.

Geoff heaves a deep sigh. He’s got twenty minutes before class starts, so he decides to revisit the poem the student has written about before worrying about whatever Jones has read into it. Geoff finds the table of contents, flips to “Physiologus,” and is greeted by a post-it note stuck over the top of the poem.

“We need to talk. No tricks. No surprises. Fifth period. Please, Mr. Ramsey.”

It’s not signed. Jones had been discreet, careful. Smart. As usual, Geoff thinks.

He decides to read the poem and paper before he thinks any more about the prospect of a meeting alone with Jones. Carefully he removes the sticky note, placing it inside the cover, and he re-reads the poem. He’d read the entire volume front to back many times over the past 11 years, although the poem Jones chose had never been one that resonated with him, was not one of the poems that Geoff had committed to memory.

As he reads the poem in silence, Geoff feels like he’s sinking. Each line is like another shovel of dirt, burying him alive, less oxygen making it to his brain. Jesus Christ, had he ever fucked up giving the book to Jones. He doesn’t even have to read Jones’ paper to know where it’s going to go.

He’d armed Jones with exactly the type of ammunition the student needed to demand a moment alone with him.

And then the paper. It’s damned good.

“Rather than focusing on the positive effects of telling the truth, Miles chooses to discuss in simple words how harmful--even deadly--it is to ignore a fact that begs to be brought to light,” Michael had written. Reading the words is akin to being dealt a physical blow.

Jones has really pulled out all the stops with this one, Geoff thinks, placing the paper on his desk and smoothing its edges with his almost-shaking tattooed hands. It’s well written, a nice analysis structured in a way that probably would’ve convinced Geoff even if he didn’t agree with the argument. But he does agree. On all counts.

It’s the best piece of writing he’s received from the student so far this semester--academically and philosophically sound. And that fact certainly cuts Geoff in a special, exquisitely painful sort of way. He’s armed Jones with every tool the boy needed to point out, in a goddamn poetry assignment, exactly how fucked up Geoff had been acting.

He’s been outmaneuvered by an 18 year old. Geoff steels himself for class--for what he needs to do.

\----

Michael had wanted to bring Mr. Ramsey coffee, but without a car he had no way of going to get any on the way in to school. But the man never ate, as far as Michael could tell, so instead he decided to pack two lunches and leave one with the note and paper. He didn’t care if it was a dumb idea or not--he needed some way to give Ramsey a peace offering.

Ray had picked him up, their morning ritual playing out. Sometimes Ray was animated and sometimes he was half asleep when he showed up to drive Michael to school--but more often than not, lately, Ray showed up with a hard look on his face and not much to say.

When they had arrived at school that morning, Michael had dashed off with a lame excuse about leaving something behind in a classroom the previous day. It had only taken a few minutes to slip into the unlocked classroom, deposit the items on Ramsey’s desk, and make it back to homeroom.

In homeroom, Michael is tense, pretending to study Spanish vocabulary.

“How’d your poetry thing go, Michael?” Gavin asks.

“I don’t know, just bullshitted it I guess,” Michael lies, not making eye contact with Gavin.

“That’s literary analysis in a nutshell, right?” Kerry chimes in.

“Yup, pretty much,” Michael says.

He’s dreading first period English. He hadn’t exactly given Ramsey a way to say no to the proposed meeting, but he hopes that he’ll receive some sort of answer that morning as to whether or not, when Michael returns to the classroom for fifth period, Ramsey will be waiting for him there.

When the bell rings signalling the end of homeroom, Michael packs up as slowly as he can. He doesn’t want to be late to Ramsey’s class, but he doesn’t want to arrive early. The fewer chances he gives the teacher to back out of the meeting the better. He imagines that Ramsey must be wracking his brain trying to come up with a tactful way to tell Michael that there’s no way in hell Michael’s going to be allowed in a room alone with him again.

Normally when Michael, Gavin, and Ray stroll into the classroom, Ramsey is shuffling papers, pouring coffee, or otherwise too occupied to greet them. But as they arrive this morning, Ramsey watches them enter. Watches Michael. The bell rings as Michael takes his seat.

The teacher holds his eyes blankly for an uncomfortably long moment. And then something almost imperceptible changes in the man’s expression. It softens--so, so slightly. Ramsey nods to Michael then, one deliberate and strong nod, not breaking eye contact. Michael’s heart is beating hard, and he nods back to his teacher.

 _It’s on, then,_ Michael thinks.

\----

Geoff surprises himself by sailing through the first three periods of the day. His thoughts do not linger on Jones or his paper or his meeting with the student. He simply walls off the knowledge in a corner of his mind and launches himself into teaching.

But the momentum wears off by the fourth period--lunch. He briefly considers going to the canteen just to stretch his legs, but realizes that he doesn’t trust himself. If he leaves the building, he might lose his nerve, and before he knows it perhaps he’ll find himself in his hatchback making a beeline for his shitty apartment and a few fingers of room temperature whiskey.

Instead, Geoff heads to the teachers’ lounge in his building, pouring a few cups of tepid coffee into his thermos before returning to his classroom.

He left the brown paper bag on his desk through the first period in plain sight, hoping that if Jones had left it in error, he would pick it up on his way out of the classroom. The student had not acknowledged the bag, though, and Geoff decides that even if the food was not meant for him, it’s fair game by now.

He unpacks the lunch, surprised at the pungent sandwich when he unwraps it. He’d assumed it would be standard high school fare, PB&J or maybe a ham sandwich, but he spreads the sandwich open to reveal hard salami, a smear of dark mustard and some other spread that might be cheese. It smells heavenly.

One bite and it _is_ heavenly. Sweet mustard cut by a pungent cheese--maybe goat cheese, Geoff thinks. He can’t help but laugh. Michael Jones is goddamned full of surprises.

Geoff finishes the sandwich in a few bites and the food helps to calm any nerves that had begun to develop.

\---

Across campus, Michael is doing his best to eat an identical lunch. The sandwich tastes like dirt to him, but he knows it’s just nerves. He gives up after a bite, eats the cookie instead and follows it immediately by a hard peppermint which he crunches up loudly. Kerry and Gavin are going on and on about their project for Burns’ class and Ray is deeply involved in texting someone.

“I’m going to get some air, boys,” Michael says. They wish him a hasty goodbye.

Michael pops the second mint into his mouth, throws his sandwich away, and strides out into the clear air. He pushes his hands down into his pants pockets, walking quick but aimless. It’s overcast but still and even at midday the temperatures are dipping. Normally the chill would be invigorating, but Michael’s mind is running at a mile a minute and the added stimulation makes Michael feel like he might vibrate off into space. He attempts to ground himself, falling into a long stride. He didn’t see Ramsey in the canteen. Maybe he’s still in his room. Maybe, Michael thinks, he can just go there now and get it over with.

Michael enters the building, which is largely deserted. Everyone in the vicinity is either at lunch or in a class and the hallway is quiet and dim. Michael mounts the stairs to the second floor, not even trying to calm his heartbeat anymore.

As Michael approaches Ramsey’s classroom, his throat goes dry, his esophagus feeling suddenly raw and sticky. He walks towards the door like a man approaching a dangerous animal--cautious, fearful--and peers through the door’s narrow window into the classroom.

\---

The lunch is really the best thing Geoff has eaten in a while, and he never expected how well a nice salami sandwich might pair with black coffee. Taking a deep breath, Geoff props his feet up on his desk, tilting his heavy chair onto its back legs, lounging. If these are the last untroubled moments of his high school teaching career, he might as well enjoy them.

Geoff unwraps the first peppermint and, balancing back in the chair, he tosses it into the air. He catches it on the first try on his tongue, deeply pleased with himself for the trick.

\---

Michael looks in just in time to watch his teacher flip the mint and catch it neatly in his mouth. The image--Ramsey lounging so contently and doing something so childish--is such a stark contrast to what Michael expected to see in the classroom that he can’t help but bark out a hard laugh.

He tries to stifle the laugh even as it bubbles up, but it’s loud enough that Ramsey hears it, and Michael watches as the noise catches the man off guard and he suddenly loses the balance he’s holding on the back legs of the chair. Ramsey sees him through the small window, maintaining a split second of eye contact before gravity overtakes him. There’s a look of panic on Ramsey’s face, and Michael hears the man utter a muffled “fuck” before crashing backwards, smacking hard on the classroom floor. The heavy chair makes a terrific bang as it meets the ground, loud as a gunshot.

\---

Geoff gets the wind knocked out of him, and he just lays there for a moment.

“Fuuuuuck. Fuck. Fuck me,” he says, coughing.

Jones is by his side immediately, although Geoff didn’t hear the student enter.

“Jesus Christ,” Jones says, kneeling, “Are you ok?” The student starts to touch his shoulder but Geoff pushes him away gently.

“I’m good, I’m good,” he says, finally beginning to scramble and right himself. “I’m just a moron.” He stands up and rubs the back of his head where it hit the unforgiving floor.

“Are you sure you’re ok?” Jones asks again. The student has picked up his chair and righted it, gesturing for Geoff to sit back down. Geoff sits, massaging his temples.

“Four legs on the floor, Ramsey,” Jones says in a scolding tone. “Don’t they teach you this shit in college?”

Geoff laughs hard at that and Jones breaks into a grin.

“You’ve really got a knack for finding me in compromising positions, Jones,” Geoff says, still rubbing his temples.

“You can’t pin this one on me,” Jones says. “I expected to see you sitting here in a cold sweat--not doing tricks with a mint.”

“I got over the cold sweat before first period started,” Geoff replies. “If you were looking for the cold sweat, you should’ve just stuck around to watch me read your paper.”

Jones is perched on the edge of his desk and Geoff looks up to meet his eyes, not sure how to start the conversation he knows they need to have. His student’s features are young, his cheeks pink from the cold outside, but his eyes are deeply hooded and--Geoff realizes now--exhausted. It’s taken a toll on Jones, Geoff knows.

\----

Michael allows himself to be scrutinized by his teacher, wondering what Ramsey must be thinking. The man has taken on the look of someone who sees a liquor bottle more often than a bed, Michael thinks with a stab of deep and familiar sadness. It’s been hard not to be melancholy about the entire situation, and Michael knows that the conversation they’re about to have is highly unlikely to have a happy ending.

Ramsey breaks eye contact then, dropping his hands from his temples and looking down at them. Michael examines the man. He’s become so accustomed to seeing Ramsey dressed like a teacher that he’s half forgotten what he looked like after hours, all hipster-cut jeans and plaid. Michael has always noticed every detail of Ramsey’s professional wardrobe, the nicely cut shirts in a variety of pale hues that only serve to emphasize the dark tattoos on his forearms and hands. The thick cuffs, always rolled up to his elbows by the time a discussion gets going, if not before he even walks into class.

Ramsey takes a deep breath and Michael prepares himself for whatever is about to happen. He’s waited two months for this moment, practically counted down the minutes until his urgency to speak to the man was at a fever pitch.

“Jones,” Ramsey says solemnly. “You make one hell of a salami sandwich.”

“Jesus Christ,” Michael says, immediately frustrated. Did the man think he was a joke? “I really did not get my message across if you think I’m here to talk about a goddamn sandwich, Ramsey.”

“I guess I don’t know where to start,” Ramsey says, catching his eyes now. “Other than to apologize for this. All of it.”

“I don’t want an apology,” Michael replies. “An apology won’t help me sleep at night--you sure as shit should know that.” His face feels hot. Michael can’t control the fact that he’s already angry,  knows he’s getting angrier than the situation warrants--but the momentum is already there, a fire stoked by two months of silent frustration. Ramsey is supposed to be an adult, supposed to know how to fix a situation like this.

“Then what do you want, Jones?” Ramsey looks at him, his eyes begging. “What are you hoping to get out of this?”

“What do I want out of it? How about an acknowledgement? A conversation? Just a few minutes where you don’t do everything you can to avoid being alone in the same room as me?” Michael feels himself getting louder and angrier while Ramsey receives the tongue lashing in silence. “I mean Christ, we sit here and we have these conversations every goddamn day in the middle of a crowd, and _I humiliate myself_ every day for the sake of keeping the discussion going. You pull all of this stuff out of me, thoughts I didn’t know I had, things I never expected to care about or feel, and you do it in front of a room full of people. Do you know what that feels like? And coming from you of all fucking people.”

Ramsey opens his mouth to respond, but Michael cuts him off.

“You give me special poems to read and write little comments about my ‘rich inner life’--but then the moment the bell rights, I’m a leper, right?” Michael can feel his voice edging on the desperate, getting louder and louder as his thoughts gain momentum. “If you really hate me so badly, then why even bother trying to see me succeed in this class? Just fail me and please let me get on with my life.”

“Jones--that’s not it at all,” Ramsey says, standing up from his chair. “That’s never been it--”

“Then what the hell is it? Please enlighten me, please,” Michael is begging now, unable to control his volume, and he feels tears rising hot and sharp--which only makes him angrier.

“Jones--” Ramsey says--but Michael doesn’t want to hear what he has to say anymore, he’s starting to cry and furious about the fact.

“Because I’m really failing to understand this hot and cold bullshit. One day you’re threatening to fail me unless I lie to my friends, and the next week you treat me like some special pet. And apparently I’m just supposed to forget that the first time we met, you had my dick in your mouth before the night was over!”

“Jones--” Ramsey is standing close now, putting his two hands on Michael’s shoulders.

“And goddamn it, I have a first name!” He’s practically shouting at the man now, tears streaming. “My name is Michael, not that you’ve ever cared--”

Ramsey presses his lips to Michael’s, and the tirade falls away, replaced by warmth--the entire world reduced in that moment to the meeting of two sets of lips. The kiss remains chaste for only a moment, Michael pliant and responsive, just feeling and no longer thinking, and the fight drains out of him as he parts his lips to make room for the other man’s tongue, tears still hot on his face. He sways at the feeling of the tip of Ramsey’s tongue, and earnestly feels weak when he again feels the novel sensation of the man’s tongue piercing, the smooth and purposeful trace of metal on his own tongue. It’s a beautiful feeling, Michael thinks, distinctly Geoff Ramsey, and he’s transported to the night at the bar, the sharp surprise and flow of pleasure at discovering the piercing. Ramsey has taken him by the shoulders, propping him steady on the edge of the desk as he kisses Michael deeply. Michael feels boneless, suspended only by the other man’s hands, until his brain finally catches up with his body, a warmth spreading from his chest outwards, and he finally comes back to himself, whining softly into the kiss and remembering that he’s more than a mouth and a pair of lips. Michael reaches up to touch the other man’s chest.

Ramsey jumps at that, not quite recoiling from the touch but certainly not leaning into it, and he breaks the kiss with a sound that’s half moan, half warning growl.

“Fuck,” Ramsey groans, stepping back, clutching his head. “Michael.”

Michael struggles to remember how to breathe.

“Do you get it now, Michael?” Ramsey says, voice almost cracking in desperation

“Mr. Ramsey,” Michael says, watching the man warily. “I can honestly tell you that this is not shedding light on whatever point you’re trying to make.” Ramsey paces to the door, cupping his hand at the window and looking around to see if anyone saw them. Michael examines him as he returns to his desk, standing an arm’s length away from Michael.

“This-- _this!_ \--that--it’s why I avoid you,” Ramsey says, a look in his eyes like he’s coming apart at the seams. “You make me go stupid, Michael. I don’t know how to be around you. I don’t know what to be for you.” He pauses at that. “But I sure as hell can’t seem to leave you alone--the one thing I could do to benefit you at this point.”

“Really?” Michael says, throwing his hands up. “You really think the solution to this is to ignore it?”

“And what alternative would you suggest?” Ramsey fires back.

“I don’t know but we tried ignoring it and it’s obviously fucking up both of our lives.”

“Michael you have to realize, any direction we go from here other than pretending like none of this ever happened is only going to fuck our lives up more. There are very real consequences to this.”

“Lying has consequences!” Michael says, exasperated. “Ignoring it has consequences! And I’m starting to think that the lie is worse than the truth was in the first place. I mean Jesus Christ Ramsey, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

Ramsey barks a mirthless laugh at that.

“Always perceptive, Michael,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t fucking sleep anymore--I just dream and drink.”

“Do you see what I’m saying?” Michael says, taking a step towards the man. He’s not angry anymore, just wants to talk, to plead his case “This isn’t the solution. You don’t face it when you’re awake, so you dream about it. We ignore it and we’re both wrecks. We tried the lie--it’s not goddamn gonna work.” Michael takes the other man’s hand, wanting only to comfort, to remind the man that they’re in it together--but Ramsey gently pulls away.

“Michael, there’s no option but the lie. You need to forget about this. I’ve done the wrong thing for you. I want you to succeed and graduate and I want you to forget about this.”

“I can make my own decisions!” Michael says. “And I don’t want to lie to myself.”

“To what end, Michael?” Ramsey says, sharp now. “Do you want me to quit my job in the middle of the semester--ruin my reputation before I even have one--and then ask you out to coffee so we can, what, chat about East of fucking Eden?”

Michael folds in on himself, at that.

“Listen to me when I say this, Michael,” Ramsey says, “I cannot be anything to you but your English teacher.”

They both jump as the bell rings, signalling the end of the lunch period. Fighting a second wave of tears, Michael slings his bag over his back and strides to the door.

“Michael--” Ramsey says behind him. But Michael is already walking down the hall, disappearing in the stream of other students.

 

 


	10. Interlude

Of course Geoff isn’t surprised when Michael doesn’t show up to class on Thursday.

Truth be told, Geoff almost didn’t make it to class that morning either. He’d held it together after the confrontation, of course, for his last two classes of the day, fantasizing mostly about putting his fist through a wall, trying desperately to ignore the accusatory swirling inner monologue bubbling just behind his thoughts. _You’re a moron, you’re an asshole, you’re a bastard, you fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up._

At the final bell that day, he’d hit the door to his classroom quickly, fighting the urge to scan the sea of students in the hallways, on the green, in the parking lot for Michael. Actively trying not to seek out the boy’s curls bobbing along in the sea of uniforms. Because even if he could’ve found Michael, Geoff reasoned, he had already said what he needed to say to the boy.

And more.

Even as he got into his hatchback to leave the campus behind him, Geoff’s blood was still hot with the kiss. And the realization had drained all of the fury out of Geoff, leaving him feeling empty, exhausted.

He’d stopped on the way home for a gas station sandwich and a 12 pack of cold beer, pushing crumpled dollars at the cashier. Time slipped by as it often did when his mind was elsewhere, life a gentle wash of stop and go traffic, the quick flight of stairs to his apartment, empty and dark and cold.

The first shot of bourbon had been harsh--but every subsequent pour and swallow got easier, chased with frigid domestic beer to mellow the burning in his throat and stomach.

Two beers and two bourbons were enough to slow Geoff’s mind sufficiently for him to take a deep breath, and as the sun began to set outside of his apartment, he opened his bag to pull out a volume of poetry, hoping for distraction. On top of the book, though, there was a white object, and Geoff realized with dismay that it was the cookie from Michael, wrapped in a paper towel.

He wanted to retch as he pulled out the offering from his student, discarding it in the trash.

Michael had tasted like peppermint, smelled like the outdoors.

His aim with the alcohol had been to feel absolved--even if it was a false security--for at least a few hours before he had to face the boy again. But in the end, the bourbon and the beer had only served to ease the plugs out of the dam in Geoff’s mind.

He’d finally poured the third bourbon over ice, knowing that if he kept drinking at such a quick pace he’d end up sick and, worse, inclined to act reckless. Geoff had turned his phone off, then, removing any temptation to text Burnie or Gus--to divulge the goings on of that afternoon. He wanted nothing more than for his friends to show up unannounced, to scream and berate him for what he’d done, for how much he knew he was wrecking Michael Jones. And Geoff allowed himself to indulge the fantasy to its next logical step: Burnie and Gus landing blows, beating the shit out of him, beating him into the ground of his shitty apartment, teaching him a lesson.

Unsurprisingly, he’d ended up with no taste for the sandwich. The night carried on, sleep still far from Geoff. Flipping through pages for distraction, alternating beer and bourbon, sobriety a long-lost concept, Geoff had eventually found himself able to think about the situation without losing his fucking mind.

He’d finally done the right thing. That had to count for something. And yes, he’d probably been too harsh with Michael. The comment about taking the boy out on a date had been… over the top. But he’d gotten his point across, finally.

And if Geoff hadn’t have gotten rude, he thought, Michael just would’ve kept talking, kept arguing his case, kept convincing Geoff that the two of them could actually have something. The boy’s logic had almost started to make sense--and something about his pleading, his crying, just the way he looked at Geoff like that, made the man temporarily feel reckless, willing to believe in anything.

Willing to do the wrong thing. Like kissing his student in an unlocked classroom with a goddamn window.

The kiss was the type of thing, Geoff thought, that would probably haunt him for life--not only because of how confoundingly dumb it had been for him to initiate it, but because of how electric it had been. There was so much the boy promised to him in that kiss with his yielding mouth, his high whine into Geoff. It was the thrilling type of connection that he’d spent most of his adult life searching for. The rare physical connection backed up with the type of thick haze of mental wanting that could make you lose your mind, that could make one dumb moment lead to a series of even dumber moments where you lose your sense, lose your morals--and lose your job, your reputation, your livelihood, off into the sunset, Geoff had thought, stopping that line of fantasy in its tracks.

But to his dismay, Geoff realized that the kiss they shared that afternoon was far more erotic than their entire night in the bar.

The thought scared him.

And when Geoff wakes up the next morning, disoriented and sweating, his skull feels like mush and he can’t tell if he’s still buzzed or just strangely not hungover. He pulls himself together enough to make coffee, to massage his mustache into place, before heading out the door to face Michael once again.

But no, he’s not honestly surprised when, on Thursday, Michael Jones’ seat sits empty.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

Michael isn’t in class on Friday, either, and Geoff has to resist the urge to pull Narvaez aside after class to interrogate the student about Michael’s whereabouts.

By the end of the period, Geoff sets his jaw and makes a promise to himself not to spend the entire day thinking about Michael Jones. To remember why he came here, why he moved here--and the other 73 students who were counting on him to learn, to graduate.

And yes, somewhere in the back of his mind, he hopes that Michael is OK. He hopes the boy hasn’t shed any more tears over the situation. He considers the fact that Michael might legitimately be sick and not just ditching school because of their situation. He takes a bit of solace in the possibility.

\--

At 4, Gus and Burnie push their way into Geoff’s classroom.

“This is an intervention, Ramsey,” Burnie says, lightly guiding Geoff out of his chair by the arm. “You’re going to eat some food that doesn’t come from a gas station, drink some liquor that isn’t lukewarm, and actually interact with some human beings tonight.”

“Ok,” Geoff replies, simply.

“Seriously?” Gus says. “You’ll come out with us?”

“Yeah, why the hell not,” Geoff says, shrugging, pushing books into his bag.

“God it’s like all of my dreams of having a real friend are finally coming true,” Gus says.

“I thought that would be a hell of a lot harder,” Burnie admits, watching Geoff pack up.

“Well what the hell else am I going to do? Go jerk off alone in my sad little apartment?”

“Uh yeah, that’s probably the exact alternative to hanging out with us,” Gus says.

“Fair enough,” Geoff says, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

\--

They go straight from school, each man taking his own separate car, and meet at a sports bar for happy hour and some hot food. Geoff almost feels like a human being for a moment, eating a real meal with two friends, sharing a pitcher of cold beer after a week of stress and work with nothing more important to talk about than scoreboards and matchups.

 

Once happy hour expires, Burnie and Gus begin to send out feelers to the other teachers via text, eventually deciding that the three of them would head to “their bar”--the watering hole Gus and Burnie frequented most often on the weekends. And by 8, Geoff finds himself in a new bar, plied with drinks from teachers he’s barely spoken to before--Farmahini, Oum, Eberle. They’re all nicer to him now, buying him beers and asking him about his classes, and Geoff realizes that they probably thought he was standoffish for never introducing himself, never coming out with them when Burnie and Gus asked him. He’s kicking himself for not coming out sooner, breaking the tension, developing a rapport with his new coworkers.

Ah, well, he thinks. There’s an entire school year for that.

Eventually he maneuvers back to Adam and Joel, a little exhausted from the attention.

“Mr. Popular,” Adam says, smiling.

“I still can’t get over your nose ring,” Geoff says, ready to change the subject and gesturing to the other man’s septum piercing.

“Yeah, well, it’s a lot easier to hide than knuckle tattoos,” Adam says.

Joel is in the middle of challenging the two of them to a game of darts when he gets a phone call, the phone vibrating in his pocket. Joel looks at the caller ID and smiles before putting it up to his ear and talking over the bar noise.

“Hey, hey,” Joel says. “Can you hear me?”

Apparently the person on the other end cannot, because Joel hands Adam his beer before making his way out to the exterior of the bar.

Geoff and Adam continue their small talk, but they’re interrupted after a minute by Joel, walking back into the bar, holding his phone away from his body like the piece of technology had bitten him. He makes a beeline for Geoff.

“It’s for you,” Joel says, straining to be heard over the background noise of the bar.

“Excuse me?” Geoff says.

“On the phone. It’s for you,” Joel repeats, pushing the phone into Geoff’s hand and nodding for him to take it. It’s Geoff’s turn to hand his beer to Adam, then. Bewildered, Geoff begins to thread between people, pushing his way out of the bar and into the frigid air outside.   
“Hello?”

“Mr. Ramsey, it’s Ray Narvaez from class,” says a voice hoarse and strange on the other end of the phone.

“Ray? What the hell?”

“Look, something is up with Michael--I don’t know what to do.”

That surely gets Geoff’s attention.

“Is he alright? Are you ok Ray?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just… Michael is texting me all this shit, it doesn’t make any sense. I think he’s headed to that fucking bar again.”

“Alone?”

“Not sure--like I said, his texts are weird. I can’t get him to pick up the phone now. Look, I’m really sorry to bother you--”

“It’s OK, Ray,” Geoff says, trying to be soothing, trying to keep the panic out of his own voice. “Tell me what the texts say.”

“He said he was going to Spokane, something about wanting to pay back all of the gas money he owed me. I texted him back and told him not to worry about it, and then he texted me and said he was ‘on the road.’”

“So someone is driving him out there?”

“That’s the thing--I texted Kerry and Gavin and neither one of them has heard from Michael since Wednesday. So if he’s got a ride, I don’t know who the hell with.”

“Jesus Christ,” Geoff says. “Please tell me he’s not dumb enough to hitchhike.”

“Not gonna lie, Ramsey,” Ray says. “He is 100% dumb enough to hitchhike. But that’s not the part that worries me. It’s the thing about paying back gas money. If he’s out doing the pool shark thing alone in a real fucking bar, he’s going to get himself killed.”

“Fucking hell,” Geoff says. Narvaez is right. “Can you go out there?”

“And what? Drive an hour to watch him get the shit beat out of himself from across the street? I can’t get in without an ID.”

“And his parents?”

“Seriously Ramsey do you think they’d even believe me if I called and told them this? You’re the only adult with an ID I know who can begin to understand the unfathomable deep shit Michael Jones is probably getting himself into right now.”  

Geoff knows that Ray is right. The perfect storm of stupid shit, converging right over his fucking head.

“OK,” Geoff says after a moment. “I’ll get out of here and head to Spokane. You got a pen? I need you to write my number down. Text me and I’ll let you know when he’s safe.”

Geoff dictates the digits.

“Thank you Mr. Ramsey,” Ray says. “I know this is fucked up. There was just no one else to call.”

“You did the right thing Ray,” Geoff says. “Look for a text later.”

With that, Geoff takes the unfamiliar phone away from his ear and searches for the button to end the call. It doesn’t occur to him until that moment to ask Ray how, exactly, he had gotten Joel’s phone number.

\--

Inside, Geoff attempts to act casual, handing the phone back to Joel.

“What was that?” Adam wants to know. “Who was calling?”

Joel and Geoff share a conspiratorial glance.

“One of our mutual students,” Geoff finally says. “He was just fucking with us. Serves you right for giving your cell out to students. Anyway, I gotta jet.”

“You’re not going to finish your beer?” Adam asks, looking between the two men for an explanation of whatever is going on.

“It’s all yours buddy,” Geoff says. He heads down a hallway without another word, leaving the bar through the back exit to avoid Gus and Burnie. He doesn’t want any more excuses to slow him down, to stand between him and the bar in Spokane.

\--

It’s a straight shot down 395 from Chewelah to Spokane, 40 miles of countryside, and Geoff offers up a silent thanks that his gas tank is mostly full as he barrels full speed down the two-lane road, through Clayton, through Deer Park.

The waning moon is just a frosty sliver, illuminating nothing, and Geoff’s eyes won’t quite adjust. It’s a frightening drive after the sun has set--a rural road with no lights except for the small towns that dot the map on the way to Spokane. Geoff’s mind thrums with stimulation as he pushes 15, 20 mph past the speed limit while simultaneously worrying about deer, cows, and anything else that might be wandering around rural Washington at 9 p.m.

Keeping his eyes out, too, for Michael.

Geoff imagines the harsh splash of headlights on the boy’s slight frame, huddled against the wind as he walks the median, thumb out for a ride.

The thought of it is so upsetting that Geoff can barely focus on it for more than a few seconds without feeling sick to his stomach. That fucking foolhardy idiot had no idea what easy prey he was. The thought of Michael hitchhiking makes Geoff’s heart move like a fluttering moth, beating itself against a lightbulb, and he rubs his face hard with a tattooed hand to dismiss the idea.

Michael would be there, at the bar. Safe. Getting drunk, but safe. Alone. Geoff forces himself to visualize that instead: Michael looking just as he had that first night. Warm and sad, not quite comfortable seated at the bar, hands cupping the watery leftovers of a cocktail, hoodie zipped up against the chill.

Forty minutes into the drive, Geoff realizes that his entire body is clenched, his jaw aching, his fingers stiff and white around the steering wheel. But no amount of deep breathing and positive thinking helps him calm down.

 _Get a grip_ , Geoff thinks to himself. _You’re going to pick Michael up, not speeding towards a crime scene._

Geoff doesn’t think past what will happen when he discovers Michael unharmed, focuses instead on imagining that moment, trying to block out all of the other possibilities: a universe where Michael never made it to the bar, a universe where Michael has gone somewhere Geoff can’t find him, a universe where Geoff is already too late and Michael’s unconscious in some emergency room with no ID, no one to vouch for him. A chill settles into Geoff as his mind becomes a roulette of frightening possibilities.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

The hustle has gone spectacularly wrong, and Michael looks around the empty booth, trying to calculate through the haze of too much alcohol whether or not there’s anything within reach that could be used as a weapon.

“Eighty fucking bucks dude?” he hears one of the guys saying, too loud.

There are three of them now, although the night started out with just one. They’re young guys but older than Michael--maybe too old to be college students.

\---

The first one had come in alone, was drinking beer when Michael arrived at the bar. Michael quickly sized up the mark. He was about Michael’s size, sandy red hair with a bulky hoodie zipped up to his neck, tapping out texts on his phone and half-watching a soccer match on one of the bar TVs.

Michael had sidled up to the man at the bar and between drinks learned his name was Marty, learned that he did, in fact, want to play some pool.

Marty had failed to mention, however, that his two larger, more belligerent friends were meeting him at the bar later.

An hour was all that it took for the hustle to go down. It had certainly been productive, too. In the third game, after money was finally bet and Michael was ready to run the table, Michael neatly buried the man in a game of 8 ball. Michael stretched the game diplomatically over five turns, starting with an even break, a solid two ball in the side pocket--Michael’s favorite opening shot. And then: set, pause, finish. Set, pause, finish. Set, pause, finish--Michael making his way around the table egged on by the satisfying hollow clink of the balls, surfing the warm buzz he had from the whiskey cocktails he’d downed earlier.

Deep in the hustle, Michael felt more like himself than he had in weeks, losing himself to the mathematical precision of analyzing the table, imagining the ghost ball, extrapolating out all of the possibilities of each shot. He was up to his eyeballs in the game and it felt good. It was the type of satisfaction he had set out to chase that night and his blood pumped with a purpose, finally, that was wholly unrelated to his English teacher.

Of course he fumbled some, made sure to set up a few easy shots for his opponent while handily drawing the cue ball back to himself.

The stranger had been good natured about it.  
“Man, it’s not my night,” Marty had said, holding the cue in front of himself and rubbing the back of his neck after Michael sank the moneyball. “How about double or nothing?” the man had asked, laying down two more crumpled twenties on the green felt.

Michael had pretended to think hard about the offer, pretended to be on the fence about whether or not he should chance losing the $40 he’d already won--when obviously he knew he could bury his opponent again and again, as long as the loser wanted to keep going.

But finally he’d agreed, suggesting Marty break this time.

Michael hadn’t needed to do much to win the second round. Losing to Michael had already thrown the stranger off and the man, gripping his cue too tight and sawing away at the balls, could barely sink a shot.

As he buried himself, something in the man shifted. His stance grew stiffer as the turns continued, and Michael actively slowed down his game, worsened it, because the aggressive way the stranger had begun to chalk his cue tip between turns was starting to sound an alarm bell in Michael’s stomach.

The stranger's game was so bad that round that Michael couldn’t have even thrown the game if he’d wanted to without the man immediately identifying him as a pool shark.

And at the end, Marty had set his jaw and pushed two more wrinkled twenty dollar bills into Michael’s hand.

“Nah, you know what, don’t even worry about it--I’ll just take the first forty,” Michael said, trying to sound casual. “Enough to cover a few rounds, you know?”

That had only made the man bristle more.

“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me kid,” he’d said, throwing the bills back down on the felt when Michael refused them.

The man had grabbed another beer and retired to a high boy table, resumed tapping out texts.

Michael should have left right then. Take the money and run.

But he’d planned on making at least enough for a hotel room--and not a shitty roach motel, either, he thought. His parents weren’t expecting him back until Sunday night. And although the eighty bucks got him closer to his goal, he’d still planned on bringing in some bigger money that night.

Not from that guy though, hell.

And the hustle had felt so nice, after all. Michael in his element, navigating and tapping the balls with practiced ease. He couldn’t settle for just one.

\---

Before that first hustle, the night had been something of a disaster, Michael getting motion sick on the bus ride down to Spokane, attempting to think of anything but Ramsey. The battery in his phone had died almost immediately after he boarded the bus, so he couldn’t even lose himself in music or fritter away time on a mindless game.

Sitting at home on Thursday and Friday feigning a headache had been worse than just going to school and facing reality. And by midday Friday, Michael had been so stir crazy that he concocted a dumb excuse about visiting a college with Ray for the weekend.

His parents had been so excited that he was actually interested in something college-related that they questioned no part of the excuse, and Michael filed that new bit of exploitable knowledge for the future.

\---

It was just a few blocks from the bus stop to the bar, and Michael hiked quickly with his overnight bag slung over his shoulder. He enjoyed the change of pace, enjoyed the feeling of being away from Chewelah with its empty, noiseless nights and endless pastures. The sound of traffic in Spokane, the sound of strangers chatting made him feel like a different person. He eagerly traced the edges of the fake ID tucked into his pocket.

The night was cold but the bar was warm when Michael arrived, thrumming with slow activity, but quiet enough so that Michael could hear the neon sign announcing “THE ROOSTER” in the window buzzing with electricity. Two Jack and cokes had been enough to get his confidence working before he singled in on Marty.

\---

After rinsing the stranger, Michael had returned to the bar, $80 in hand, and ordered a whiskey neat and a glass of water--remembering Ramsey’s order from the night they’d first met, the impressive way the man had taken the shot as if it were nothing. The same bartender was on duty that night and if he remembered Michael from September, he didn’t say anything.

Michael took the shot, tilting it into his mouth. But if his aim was to look like a badass, he missed the mark by a mile. Instead of one easy swallow, the whiskey went down harsh in several loud gulps, Michael tasting every fiery drop. He sputtered, pretending to sneeze into the crook of his elbow, and then slurped enthusiastically at the water.

“Round two, then?” Jack the bartender asked, pretending that he didn’t notice Michael’s unsophisticated display.

“Ugh yeah,” Michael croaked, still coughing, sliding another bill towards the bartender. “Make it a Jack and coke this time though.”

The whiskey was more palatable when paired with something sweet, and Michael retired to an empty booth facing away from the door, laying in wait to pick out his next mark.

\---

The bar filled up quickly as time passed and Michael identified a few easy targets--mostly young men and women alone--people who posed no threat to him if they got angry.

Michael heard a ruckus outside and, looking over his shoulder through the plate glass windows, he watched the bouncer at the door welcome two young men with a roar and a complicated handshake. The men were rowdy and red faced--probably already drunk, from what Michael could tell--but the bouncer obviously knew the men and welcomed them inside.

Michael peered at them as they approached the bar and ordered some sort of complicated shot. They looked to be in their early twenties, every inch screaming frat boy. One had dark, close-cropped hair and sunglasses on his head, despite the fact that it had been dark out for hours. The other had a shaved head, tan and unattractively veiny. And it wasn’t so much their looks that were intimidating but the way they held their bodies, straight but slightly bouncing and animated like boxers warming up before a fight. The volume of their conversation communicated clearly that the pair thought they were important and untouchable.

Jack poured their drinks and they took a shot that involved dropping a shot glass of something into a larger glass of something else and then chugging the entire concoction. They did so, loudly, the bald one slamming his empty glasses down on the bar, the one with sunglasses laughing.

The volume of the other people in the bar began to increase in response, their presence somehow amping up the energy in the room.

The two ordered beers, slapping a credit card down on the bar, then, and Michael watched in a slowly unfurling horror as they made their way straight to Marty.

\---

Michael should have left then. But as Marty threw a glance over his shoulder at Michael and the other two men began to talk to him, he knew if he moved he’d only draw their attention.

\---

“Eighty fucking bucks dude?” the bald one says now, loud enough for Michael to hear in his booth.

Sunglasses turns to look at Michael and Baldy follows suit almost immediately. Sunglasses begins to stride over to him but Marty catches his arm, says something low to his friend, shaking his head.

“Nah, fuck that,” Baldy says, pushing past his friends and quickly walking to the booth. He’s there in an instant before Michael can even consider a route of escape.

“Mind if we join you?” the bald man says down to Michael with a sneer, his hand on the back of the booth. Sunglasses and Marty are just a step behind him.

“Actually, I’m waiting for someone,” Michael bluffs, feigning total friendliness with a submissive smile.

Sunglasses slides into the booth across from Michael and begins rolling up his sleeves.

“Why don’t we keep you company until they show up?” Baldy suggests.

Then to Michael’s chagrin, the bald man sits down in the booth next to Michael. Michael squeezes in towards the window, wanting to maintain as much space as he can between himself and the stranger. But the man just smiles and moves immediately closer, filling the gap, pressing his bulk against Michael. He smells like liquor and sweet aftershave.

Marty is left then, standing awkwardly by the booth.

“Come on Marty,” Baldy says, gesturing to the other side of the booth. “Take a seat with us.”

“Rick, come on,” Marty says to his bald friend. “Let’s just get going.”

“But we only just got here,” insists Sunglasses.

Defeated, Marty takes the last open seat at the booth. Sunglasses takes a deep draw from his beer and cracks his knuckles.

\---

Geoff finds his way to the bar easily, cruising past the dimly lit glass front of The Rooster before realizing that he’ll have to find parking. The streets are choked with cars and people and the bar has no dedicated parking. Geoff feels his blood pressure rising at the possibility that he’s made it to his destination but won’t be able to find a goddamn parking spot. Finally, two and a half blocks away, he sees a car throw on its reverse lights and he stops, ready to take the spot.

The SUV just sits there, though, engaged in reverse but not moving.

“Oh come the fuck ON!” Geoff rages, slamming his hands against the steering wheel. His skull feels swollen with panic and time stretches out impossibly slow as the vehicle clumsily backs out of the spot. Geoff slams his hatchback into the space and drops into a speed walk back to the bar.

The same bouncer is at the door tonight and he stops Geoff.

“ID please,” the man says. Geoff realizes, then, that his wallet is back in his car.

“Fuck, I left it in my car man,” Geoff says, trying not to get immediately on the man’s bad side. His fear and impatience is rising as he glances past the bouncer, scanning the occupants of the bar for Michael. “You gotta know I’m 21 though, right?”

“Bar policy,” the bouncer says with no pity.

“Seriously? I’m old enough dude,” Geoff says.

“Sorry _dude_ ,” the bouncer spits back at him. “ID or no entry.”

Geoff chokes out a noise that’s halfway between a groan and a gargle as he steps back.

“OK, got it,” he says.

But before he leaves, he scans the bar a second time--finally spotting Michael. The boy is in a crowded booth, pressed up against the glass of the front window. Geoff can only see the back of Michael’s head, his shoulders. With him there are three older men--one Michael’s size but the other two taller, wider.

At first Geoff isn’t sure what to make of it when the man sitting next to Michael throws an arm around the boy’s shoulders, crushing the boy towards the stranger. But a hot jolt of dread shoots through Geoff as he watches Michael jerk away and push the man, struggling to create space between them.

One of the men on the other side of the booth thinks it’s hilarious, throwing his head back and shaking with exaggerated laughter as the man next to Michael overpowers him, squeezes him close.

Geoff is frenzied now, turning on his heel, running back to his car for the ID. He finds his wallet quickly, a sweat building on his brow despite the frigid air blowing down the avenue, and he turns to sprint back to the bar. He’s already got the ID ready as he trots up to the bouncer this time. Wordless, the man puts a neon bracelet around Geoff’s wrist and nods to the door.

Geoff flies through the door, then, already walking towards the booth before he realizes that it’s empty now. His heart flutters. 


	13. Chapter 13

Geoff has never understood it when someone told him that they were so angry they “saw red.”

But when he steps out the back door into a narrow alley behind the bar and sees the scene before him, a feeling beyond anger, beyond rage fills his chest. The rush is so intense that he can almost _hear_ it--burning out every part of him that is logical, reserved.

He zeroes in on Michael first. The boy is doubled over, propped against the wall with his hands on his knees. He doesn’t see Geoff yet. The three men from the booth are there too, their backs to Geoff.

“Rick, this is stupid,” the smallest of them says.

“What the fuck is this?” Geoff says in a guttural voice he barely recognizes, letting the bar door slam behind him. The three men turn to face Geoff then, the smallest of them frowning, the two others grinning wickedly and not at all deterred by the stranger’s presence.

“What does it look like?” the bald one says, taking a step towards Geoff.

Geoff’s eyes don’t leave Michael. The boy spits weakly into the street and drags his wrist across his mouth. Slowly he looks up, peering at Geoff.

“Ramsey?” he says in disbelief.

The sound of Michael’s voice, odd and muffled, stokes Geoff’s fury. He pushes through the three men, shoulder-first, jostling the bald man roughly who responds with a surprised “Hey!”

Geoff stoops to meet Michael, his hands assessing the boy with a brusque efficiency, lifting Michael’s chin so the dim light can catch his face. Michael gawks at him, open-mouthed and tearing up. He’s been struck and an ugly diagonal gash across his eyebrow is leaking a stream of blood into his eye. His lip is swollen, split, and Geoff uses his thumb to pull down Michael’s lower lip. He still has all his teeth.

“Jesus Christ,” Geoff breathes, cupping the boy’s cheek and raking his free hand through Michael’s hair. Michael leans into his hand, unsteady on his feet. Finding Michael, seeing him conscious is enough relief for Geoff to begin to come back to himself now.

“Hey kid, your babysitter finally showed up,” one of the men calls over Geoff’s shoulder. “This’ll make it more interesting.”

Geoff holds Michael’s eyes for a moment before slowly straightening up, keeping his back to the men, making a show of the fact that he’s not worried about them. Finally he turns.

“Why don’t you boys go back inside,” Geoff says slowly. His teeth grit on the last words.

The bald one makes a show of laughing hard at that, turning to his friend.

“No, I don’t think we’re gonna do that,” he says. “Are we Scott?”

“Nah,” Scott, the other one, says. “I think Rick and I are gonna get _our_ friend’s money back from _your_ friend.”

Methodically, Geoff begins to roll up his sleeves, taking his time, making neat, thick cuffs, each roll exposing more of his heavy tattoos.

“Give me their money, Michael,” Geoff says after a moment, holding a hand out without looking behind him.

“Ramsey, I already--” Michael begins.

“Shut up,” Geoff says, clipped. “Give it to me.”

He feels Michael place a few bills in his hand. Geoff palms the money, counting the bills. Seventy three dollars.

“You’re going to beat a kid up,” Geoff says, not looking up, “over seventy three fucking dollars? I’ve been broke before boys, but never like that.”

“That’s just it,” the bald one says, an ugly grin spreading across his face like a gash. “He took 80 bucks from our friend Marty here, spent seven of it on drinks. Plus, we figure in the cost of a little pain and suffering… Sounds like the kid just doesn't have enough to pay us back.”

“Plus we got nothing better to do tonight,” Scott adds.

Geoff frowns deeply, sliding a hand into his pocket. He takes his wallet out and slips out a fifty dollar bill.

“Put fifty on top of that,” Geoff says in a measured voice, holding the money out, “and find yourselves something better to do.”

“I think I saw some more bills in there,” the bald one says, taking a step towards Geoff.

Geoff knows that he could fight one of them in a fair fight, but not two--not at once--not to mention their friend in the back sniveling. He’s got no weapon other than his keys. Might slow one of them down. Might just make them angrier though. But, despite this knowledge, there’s nothing left in Geoff other than fury.

Geoff closes the gap between them, stepping close enough to smell the bald man.

“You’d do well,” Geoff says, barely louder than a harsh whisper, “to take what’s been offered. And go.”

“Oh yeah?” the other one, Scott, says, stepping up shoulder to shoulder with his friend. Neither is taller than Geoff. He continues to size them up. He’ll fight dirty, he decides, if one of them makes a move. Get them both down on the hard pavement. A heel of the hand to a nose, an elbow to the solar plexus, a knee to the groin, anything to get them both to the ground, to buy him enough time throw Michael over his shoulder and push back into the bar.

“What’s he worth to you?” Scott continues.

“Everything,” Geoff growls. He makes a show, then, of dropping the money onto the concrete and stepping back to put his feet into an easy and practiced southpaw boxer’s stance: knees bent, center of gravity low, head tucked behind his left shoulder, hands raised slightly in front of his chest. They’re not laughing anymore as Geoff stares at them blankly from heavy-lidded eyes.

“Why don’t you just keep your money,” the bald one says, “and you can go back into the bar. We’ll take care of your friend.”

The man attempts to stand tall, to tower over Geoff, pushing his face into Geoff’s. It’s a good sign. It means the man doesn’t know how to fight. A fighter knows to make his jaw hard to hit, to position his body over his feet so that it’s difficult for his opponent to take him down. His friend takes a similar stance and it gives Geoff the confidence he needs. After all: everyone can talk big until they get socked in the fucking face.

“He’s _mine_ ,” Geoff replies through gritted teeth.

The shorter of the two, Scott, feigns a punch then--just a little jab, not meant to connect. It’s meant to make Geoff step back, to make him doubt himself. It’s a trick a bully uses--not a fighter.

Geoff doesn’t flinch. Instead, he acts like the punch is the funniest thing he’s ever seen, lets out the craziest laugh he can muster--more howl than than laughter.

“You think this is my first bar fight, boys?” he asks in between peals of laughter. He sustains the laughter, and it grows, reaching a crescendo, and Geoff can only hope that he sounds completely unhinged.

The other two men exchange glances. It’s working.

“Take your money,” he says finally, “and get the fuck out of my sight.”

There’s a flurry of activity to the side and the two men look over. Geoff doesn’t take his eyes off them now, ready for any distraction to give him an in. But it’s the third man, he realizes, gathering the money off of the pavement.

“Let’s just go,” the man says, shoving the bills into his pocket. “I don’t have enough to bail you out of jail if you beat the shit out of this guy,” he says, pleading with his friends.

Geoff starts laughing again, dropping out of the stance, doubling over, peals of laughter erupting out of him.

“You’re right, Marty” the bald one says over Geoff’s laughter. “This guy can keep his little boyfriend all to himself.”

The insult is enough for both of the men to be satisfied and they turn to go back into the bar without a second look at Geoff.

The bar’s back door slams shut and Geoff spins to Michael. The boy has propped himself back on the wall, no longer doubled over, and he’s actually smiling as Geoff closes the distance between them, his hands on Michael’s shoulders, his neck, his face. Geoff has been riding surges of adrenaline all night and it’s made him half crazed, relief flooding him now from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, and he just needs to touch Michael, to know that he’s OK.

“Jesus Ramsey,” Michael says. “I knew you could be intimidating but not like that.”

He doesn’t even want Michael to talk--his voice sounds thick and all wrong with his split lip, and the sound of it makes something in him want to lay down and cry, all of his emotions amplified by the events of the night. Instead Geoff gently pulls Michael off of the wall, into a chaste embrace, supporting the swaying boy with one arm across his shoulders, a firm hand at his back.

“Holy shit, Michael,” he says, breathing into the boy’s neck. “Holy hell.” Michael has gone limp with relief, barely supporting himself, just allowing himself to be held.

“I saw you in the booth when them but the bouncer wouldn’t let me in. When I came back and you were gone--I don’t know what I thought,” Geoff says, knowing he’s probably only barely making sense. “I thought they took you--Christ, I thought I’d lost you.”

Michael shifts in his embrace.

“Ramsey, I’m bleeding on your shirt,” he says, feebly.

“I don’t care, Michael,” Geoff says through a smile. He runs his hand through Michael’s hair a final time before releasing him, propping him back up against the wall.

“Can you walk?” Geoff asks. “I’m parked two and a half blocks away.”

“I’ll just wait here,” Michael says.

“No, fuck that. You think I’m letting you out of my sight at this point?” Geoff says, furrowing his brow. “I’ll carry you, if it comes to that.”

“Ugh, Jesus,” Michael says. “Yeah, I can make it. Let’s just take it slow.”

Michael is a pathetic picture, balancing a backpack on one shoulder and swaying on his feet as he shuffles down the alley. Geoff takes the backpack from him and slings it across his own back, putting an arm firmly around Michael’s shoulders to steady him as they walk. It’s an arduous and slow journey and they get more than one strange stare as they make their way down the street to Geoff’s car.

Geoff opens the passenger door and sits Michael down before digging in his back seat. He produces a clean t-shirt, folds it neatly and hands it to Michael.

“We’ll get you cleaned up in a minute,” he says. “Lean back in the seat and press this on your eye.” Michael’s lip has already stopped bleeding, but the cut across his eyebrow continues to ooze blood into his eye. There’s too much blood to even see the wound properly, but Geoff knows that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a bad gash. It’s just a spot that tends to bleed. He won’t be able to tell anything until he’s cleaned it off, anyway. He shuts the passenger door as Michael leans back and circles around to take his side in the driver’s seat.

The car ride is silent and short, Geoff pulling almost immediately into a 24-hour pharmacy on the north side of town.

“Wait here and lock the doors,” Geoff says. Michael doesn’t protest.

It only takes a few minutes for Geoff to return, equipped with two plastic bags on his arm. Michael pops the lock as Geoff comes to the passenger side, opening the door.

“Come to the back so I can see what I’m doing,” Geoff says, taking him lightly by the elbow. “Bring the shirt.” Michael follows his instructions, coming to rest against the flat trunk of the hatchback with the shirt pressed against his eye.

The parking lot’s bright floodlights illuminate the damage to his face. Geoff eases the shirt off of Michael’s forehead and feels sick to see the damage outlined so clearly: blood crusted dark around Michael’s eye, his lip swollen.

Geoff stoops to dig in the bag, producing a bottle of water.

“Tilt your head back and close your eyes,” he says. Michael does. Geoff holds the shirt up to the boy’s cheek and pours clean water gingerly over the wound. Most of the fresher blood comes clean and the shirt catches the water. Geoff refolds the shirt to expose a clean portion and soaks the fabric with more water.

“This is going to hurt a little, Michael,” he says, preparing to rub the boy’s skin to see, finally, the extent of the damage.

“Everything hurts, dude,” Michael says. “This is a piece of cake compared to getting socked in the jaw.”

He still winces, though, as Geoff dabs at the wound and soaks off the crusted blood from his eyelid. It’s an ugly and long gash, but it has clean edges and isn’t deep enough to need stitches. He rinses the wound a final time before stooping back to the bag.

“Your pretty face is going to look fucked tomorrow,” Geoff says, “but at least you don’t need stitches.”

Michael grins at him. Geoff produces a small tube of antibiotic ointment and squirts some of it inexpertly into the wound, careful not to touch the open wound with his fingertips. He swabs the skin surrounding the cut clean and dry with a piece of sterile dressing before producing a package of butterfly bandages.

“Put your fingers here and hold the cut together like this,” Geoff says, pressing his own fingers onto Michael’s forehead. Michael follows instructions and Geoff struggles with the first butterfly bandage.

Three adhesive bandages later and the wound is closed. It’s finally stopped bleeding, too.

“How’d you learn how to do all this?” Michael asks, touching the bandages gently.

“It’s not exactly rocket science,” Geoff says. “Here.” He pushes a second bottle of water into Michael’s hand. “Wash out your mouth.”

Michael does as he’s told, rinsing his bloody mouth and spitting out the pink water. He does it twice more until the water he spits is clean. He drinks the rest of the water from the bottle in greedy gulps before breathing out hard, his breath billowing white in the frigid air.

“I’m sorry about the money,” Michael says sheepishly. “I’ll pay you back, plus whatever all this stuff cost.”

Geoff pushes a sharp breath out of his nose, shaking his head.

“I don’t care about the money, Michael. Jesus,” he says. “I’m just glad you’re OK.”

Geoff produces a can of soda and a single-dose package of Tylenol from the second bag. He cracks the soda and hands it to Michael, who eagerly takes a swig. Geoff tears open the Tylenol and holds the capsules out. Michael throws them back.

“Finish that up and we’ll hit the road,” Geoff says. “Do you need the bathroom while we’re here or anything?”

Michael looks at him warily.

“Where the fuck did you even come from, Mr. Ramsey?” Michael says, finally.

“Please, I think we’re way past the point of ‘Mr. Ramsey.’ Let’s go with Geoff. And Ray called me.”

“How does Ray have your phone number?” Michael asks.

“He doesn’t. He called Joel, actually. We were at a bar together.”  

“But my phone died before I could even tell Ray where I was going,” Michael protests. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Ray had a hunch,” Geoff says, shrugging.

“You drove an hour to find me _on a hunch_?” Michael says, cutting his eyes at Geoff.

“Oh, I think we’ve pretty well established at this point that I stop making rational decisions the minute you’re involved,” Geoff says bitterly.

“Why? Why did you look for me?” Michael asks.

“Jesus Christ, because I give a fuck, Michael,” Geoff says, frustrated, stepping closer to Michael in the cold. “Because I’m exhausted of pretending that I don’t care about you.”

It’s Michael’s turn to be frustrated.

“Yeah? And what about not being anything but my English teacher?” Michael throws back at him.

“You said you wanted us to stop lying,” Geoff says, low. “It looks like you win, Michael.”

Michael is tearing up and Geoff can’t tell if it’s from exhaustion or pain or sheer emotion.   
“Can… can we just sit down,” Michael says, pathetically.

Geoff props Michael up and unlocks the back of his hatchback. He guides the boy down to sit on the bumper and Geoff sits down beside him. Michael slumps into his side and Geoff snakes an arm around the boy, rubbing his back. After protecting him, bandaging him up, the intimacy feels natural.

“It took me 48 hours to convince myself that I did the right thing on Wednesday,” Geoff says slowly, “two minutes on the phone with Ray to realize that I was wrong, and one second in that alley to realize how important you are to me.”

“So what do we do now?” Michael asks. “What are we, then?”

“We’re fucked, Michael,” Geoff says through a grin. “Completely and thoroughly fucked.”

And at that he pulls Michael towards him and places a chaste kiss on his student’s bruised lips.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Before they begin the drive back to Chewelah, Geoff remembers that he promised to text Ray.

>>Geoff: he took a few punches before i showed up but i’ve got him now

Ray texts back almost instantly.

>>Ray: jesus. is he ok?  
>>Geoff: a little worse for wear but he’ll be fine. do you want me to bring him to your place?  
>>Ray: no can do, i’m not at home  
>>Geoff: ok. thanks again ray. don’t want to think about what woudlve happened if you didnt call

\---

“You’re lucky you’re friends with a smart kid,” Geoff says, turning to Michael in the passenger seat before starting the car.

“Don’t I know it,” Michael says, looking straight out at the dark road. “Lucky I’m friends with a smart teacher, too.”

“I don’t know if I’d call bluffing three strangers in a dark alley ‘smart,’” Geoff says, frowning. “What were you aiming for back there, anyway? Suicide by frat boy?”

There’s a long pause, then, just the sound of the road and traffic as they reach the suburbs of Spokane.

“I didn’t mean for you to get involved, Geoff,” Michael says, finally. “Don’t get me wrong--I’m glad you did--I’m glad as hell you saved my ass but… I’m sorry you have to deal with the fallout now. I guess I just needed to get away from school, from my house for a few days.”

“A few days? What did you have planned?”

With a deep sigh, Michael recounts the entire con with his parents, the lies about visiting a college campus with Ray, the bus trip from Chewelah to Spokane, the plan to hustle up enough dough for a nice hotel room.

“I thought I’d be making myself sick on room service by now,” Michael said. “Not nursing a black eye.”

“You realize you’re a moron, right?” Geoff says. “I mean it’s one thing to play pool shark for a bathroom blow job with a guy who’s been hitting on you all night. Most people don’t take as kindly to being conned out of actual money.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Michael says, already pouting. “Think I learned my lesson.”

There’s silence between them again. Finally Geoff turns onto 395, the long, dark road back to their homes.

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but where am I taking you? Not back to your parents, I assume.”

“God no,” Michael says. “I’d rather take my chances with the guys in the alley.”

“Ray’s place is out--I already asked him,” Geoff says.

“I don’t really have anyone I can ring up at midnight,” Michael says, looking out the passenger window.

“No older cousin? No friend at college?”

Michael thinks for a minute.

“All of my family is back in Jersey. And all of my friends at college are out of state.”

Geoff sighs.

“I’ll put you up in a hotel, then,” Geoff says. “I can come pick you up tomorrow and we’ll sort things out then.”

“I really don’t want you coming out of pocket for me more than you already have,” Michael says.

“Michael, the only alternative is my apartment.”

Geoff trails off, exhausted. In the back of his mind, he knows that he’d rather the kid stay with him than in some cut rate motel somewhere. He’s worn himself out with worry quite enough for one weekend.

“I’m not going to, like, make a move on you if that’s what you’re worried about,” Michael says, pouting with arms crossed in front of his chest. “I just need somewhere to crash. I mean, you have a couch right?”

Geoff cuts his eyes at Michael, frowning.

“Seriously Geoff? You don’t have a couch?”

Another long pause.

“You can sleep in my bed. I’ve got a camping pad I can sleep on.”

“Jesus dude,” Michael says. “You’ve been here, what, nine weeks--and you don’t have a damn couch?”

“If you’re going to get judgey, I’ll drop you off at your parents’ place,” Geoff says, his eyes on the road.

“No, you’re right, you’re right,” Michael says. “I’m sorry. I really appreciate it. I won’t say anything. I’m sure your apartment’s great.”

\---

Michael falls asleep quickly, lulled by the road noise and the peaceful rural darkness.

A feeling of deja vu washes over Geoff as he silently guides the two of them back. Every few miles, he chances a look over at Michael in the near-darkness. The boy has curled himself against the passenger door, snoring softly. Without the split lip and bandaged forehead, he would look practically serene in the shadows.

He knows that he’s probably making the wrong decision but he’s too exhausted to care.

\---

An hour later, Michael finds himself being woken up gently, a hand on his arm. They’re parked, an ancient-looking apartment building looming up before them.

“Put your hood up before you get out of the car,” Geoff says somewhere in the darkness.

“Jesus, you some sort of secret agent?” Michael says. “Is someone monitoring your apartment?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Geoff says. “It’ll just make me feel better, ok?”

Michael does as he’s told. Geoff grabs the boy’s backpack and circles the car to meet Michael on the passenger side. He’s more steady on his feet now, though, realizing that the adrenaline and alcohol has worn down to a dull exhaustion and an ache in his head. Geoff keys in a code at the first door. Inside, the old apartment building is claustrophobic with rich paneling, an embellished staircase. Michael follows Geoff up a narrow flight of creaking stairs and down a short hallway to a door numbered 206. Even the light exertion makes his head pound.

Geoff fumbles with his keys for a moment before unlocking the apartment, reaching in to flip on a light in the darkness, guiding Michael gently by the arm inside.

Apartment 206 is even more stark than Michael had expected.

His teacher’s living quarters had long been a subject of speculation for Michael. He’d never given his class any indication of where he lived, and Michael had imagined a variety of romanticized scenarios. Mr. Ramsey living in the loft of one of the old factories downtown, exposed bricks and rafters. Ramsey living in a guest house on a farmer’s property on the outskirts of town, driving his hatchback down dirt roads every morning. At the very least, he’d imagined that Ramsey had nice taste in furniture--maybe some sophisticated mid-century modern pieces, purchased at garage sales and lovingly restored.

So when the bare bulbs in a ceiling fan illuminate Geoff’s studio apartment, Michael is a bit underwhelmed. There’s a mattress against one wall, neatly made up with dark bedding, one pillow. The only other pieces of furniture are a small desk and chair, and both are surrounded by--overtaken by--stacks of books.

Geoff quickly enters the apartment, putting Michael’s backpack on the foot of the mattress. He stoops to turn on a small floor lamp, then returns to the front door to turn the harsh overhead light off. Geoff moves to the kitchen, flipping on another light. Eliminating the overhead lighting does make the space seem less stark--but no less empty. The small space is now lit warmly by the lamp and another light mounted under a kitchen cabinet.

“Sorry,” Geoff says, turning to him. “There’s not much privacy. But make yourself at home. The bathroom’s in there.”

There’s a small hallway with a bathroom on one side and a large closet on the other. The entirety of the space is almost comically small. It’s not terrible, though: hardwood floors, a large window, ancient cream paint.

“Hope I don’t get lost on the way,” Michael says sarcastically, hitching his backpack up and taking the few steps required to enter the bathroom. He flicks on a light, shuts the door behind him. The bathroom is old school but surprisingly well appointed with a pedestal sink, a free-standing bathtub, tiles worn and white. Michael peers into the mirror hung on the wall above the sink, examining his wounds. Geoff has done a good job of bandaging him up. The skin around his eye is a deep pink, the eyelid swollen, and he wonders fleetingly what excuse he’ll use when questioned about it. His lip isn’t as bad as he expected, luckily, swollen and split but not shockingly bad.

Michael pees, washes his hands and face, brushes his teeth. He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his jeans and hoodie, folding them neatly, and fishes a thermal shirt out of his backpack. He hadn’t packed true pajamas, assuming he’d be alone, and ignores his momentary hesitation at leaving the bathroom in his boxers.

Geoff has turned back the bedding on the mattress and placed a camping pad and sleeping bag a few feet away from the bed, beneath the apartment’s one large window. The man is sitting on the thin pad, looking at his phone when Michael comes out. He’s changed out of his blood-stained teaching clothes into dark sweatpants and a loose sweater while Michael was in the bathroom, and he looks up as Michael pads out into the room, bare feet on hard wood.

Michael stands there as they eye each other for a minute. It’s odd--and strangely satisfying, Michael realizes--to see his teacher for the first time in what amounts to pajamas sitting cross-legged and barefoot. Finally Michael cracks a wide smile and snickers slightly.

“What’s so funny, Jones?” Geoff says, obviously self conscious.

“Your feet,” Michael admits. Geoff stares down at his feet, wondering what’s wrong with them. “I guess I just assumed you were tattooed from head to toe. They look so naked.”

Geoff snorts at that.

“I didn’t come out of the womb covered in tattoos, Michael,” he says. “These things take time. There’s still plenty of blank canvas left.”

Michael tries feebly to talk Geoff into letting him sleep on the camping pad instead, but Geoff won’t hear it. The man stubbornly stuffs himself into the sleeping bag and turns away from Michael, facing the wall, before the conversation is even over--wishing him a gruff “g’night” before falling silent.

Michael reaches over to turn off the light. In the darkness, he tucks himself into Geoff’s bed. The soft sheets, the heavy comforter are far more lovely than he’s willing to admit as he almost instantly drifts into sleep, comforted further by the rhythmic breaths in the dark a few feet away from him, the warm presence, the satisfying feeling of for once not being alone.

\---

They both sleep heavily, mercifully dreamless.

\---

Geoff wakes up in stages, hazy pre-dawn light illuminating the apartment. His first realization is that he’s not in his own bed, his hip and shoulder poking hard into the ground, and as he moves, the muscles in his back feel stiff and sore. He comes back to himself, then, opening his eyes and realizing he’s just a few inches away from the wall. He remembers the night before, the hours in the car, the rush of adrenaline in the alley, the stolen kiss in the parking lot, the sight of a shy Michael Jones standing in his boxers.

Geoff heaves himself to his other side within the sleeping bag to look over at Michael. His student is still sleeping deeply, laying to face Geoff. His eye is crimson now.

The apartment is frigid and drafty. Geoff quietly extracts himself from the sleeping bag to adjust the heat before opening his fridge, wondering idly what he’ll feed Michael today. The fridge is abysmal: beers, most of a stick of butter, condiments, takeout leftovers. The pantry isn’t much better with a sad stock of crackers and stale bread.

Geoff decides to go grab something, knowing that Michael will wake up hungover and needing to eat. Quietly he slips on shoes, a jacket, picks his keys up without jangling them. He scrawls a short note for Michael (“In search of food, call if you need me --G” plus his phone number) and sets it on the bed next to the boy before slipping silently out of his apartment.

\---

Michael wakes up to the sound of the door lock clicking into place. Geoff is gone and for a moment Michael’s heart sinks into his stomach. But he sees the note almost immediately and smiles. What a thoughtful asshole.

He sits up in bed and vertigo washes over him, a strong wave of nausea overtaking him for a moment. Michael doesn’t know if he’s hungover or if his head is just wrecked from the beating.

He fishes his phone and charger from the backpack at the foot of the bed, plugging the charger into the wall and the phone into the charger. After a minute, the phone boots up, and Michael scrolls quickly through his texts to see if his parents had checked in. They hadn’t.

There is, though, a string of unanswered texts from Ray, stuff he must’ve sent after Michael’s phone had already died. And then one apparently sent early this morning:

>>Ray: hey you ok?

Michael taps a text back to him.  
>>Michael: yeah i’m good. thanks again for saving my ass.

Ray returns the text after only a minute and Michael wonders what’s got him up so early on a weekend.

>>Ray: where’d you end up last night?  
>>Michael: his place  
>>Ray: RAMSEY’s place?  
>>Michael: yeah i didn’t have anywhere else to go  
>>Ray: haha oh my god  
>>Ray: jesus michael  
>>Ray: did you do the do or???  
>>Michael: ray NO  
>>Ray: jesus christ  
>>Ray: ramsey is SO fired  
>>Michael: thanks for the vote of confidence dude

\---

Michael is sitting at the head of Geoff’s neatly made bed when Geoff returns and, Geoff realizes, he's wearing a pair of Geoff's sweatshorts.

“Ah, you’re up,” Geoff says, striding into the apartment with a paper bag of fast food and a second bag from the gas station. “Are those _mine_?”

“Uh, sorry. You said make yourself at home.” Michael doesn’t even blush and Geoff decides not to push it.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” Michael says.

“Yeah, you look it, too.”

“Thanks, dude,” Michael says.

Geoff places the plastic gas station bag on the counter, pulls two plates out of his kitchen cabinet, and tucks a roll of paper towels under his arm before crossing the room to join Michael on the bed. He lowers the paper bag of food to the bed and kicks off his own shoes before sitting cross legged at the foot of the mattress.

“Sorry for the lack of dining room table,” Geoff says.

“Or the lack of a dining room in general,” Michael says.

Geoff frowns a warning at him before unwrapping sausage and egg biscuits, putting them on the plates, followed with crisp hash browns. The fried smell of the food fills the apartment up and Geoff realizes for the first time that he hasn’t eaten anything since happy hour on Friday.

He holds a plate out to Michael.

“You hungry? Want some coffee?”

Michael groans softly.

“You need to eat something,” Geoff says. “I’m sure you’re hungover.”

Pouting, Michael takes the plate from Geoff. Geoff goes back to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a large glass of water and two Tylenol. Michael takes those reluctantly, too, swallowing the pills before taking a small bite of his breakfast.

“I hate to leave you stranded here but I have parent-teacher meetings back at school all morning,” Geoff says, taking his seat at the foot of the bed again and tucking into his own food.

“That’s fine, dude,” Michael says. “Beggars can’t be choosers. I know you weren’t counting on babysitting me all weekend.”

\---

Michael does admit that he feels better after eating, the Tylenol kicking in to soothe the sharp pain in his head. He continues to sit on the bed, watching Geoff get ready to head back to school.

It’s strange to watch the transformation of the man as he assumes the role of teacher again, striding out of the bathroom in his familiar broadcloth shirt and dark slacks, combing his mustache in the mirror, tucking his shirt in meticulously and sliding a belt around his waist.

He wonders if this is the same routine Geoff goes through every morning before school, listening to the man tinker around in the kitchen as he makes coffee, filling the large thermos that is always by his side in class.

“My last meeting is at noon, so I’ll be back here after that,” Geoff says without looking at Michael. He’s crouched in the corner of the apartment now, digging through books. He finds a slim volume and tucks it into his bag before continuing to search. A moment later, he tosses another small book to Michael on the bed.

“Sorry I don’t have a TV or anything. Read this and let me know what you think of it when I get back,” Geoff says. Michael looks down at the book in his hands: They Feed They Lion, Poems by Philip Levine.

“Is this an assignment, or…?”

“Think of it as penance for last night,” Geoff says with a crooked smile. “There’s some food in a bag in the fridge if you feel like anything later. Text me if you need me--I’ll keep an eye on my phone.”

Geoff picks up his keys and slides his leather bag over his shoulder.

“I don’t get a kiss goodbye?” Michael says.

“Gross, no,” Geoff says, frowning. “I’m in teacher mode. Read the book and maybe we’ll talk.”


	15. Chapter 15

“Philip Levine was born in 1928 in Detroit and was formally educated there, at public schools and at Wayne University.”

Michael has flipped to the last page and is reading the author bio.

“After a succession of stupid jobs he left the city for good.”

Michael laughs at that, immediately having a good feeling about the volume of poetry. He flips to the table of contents to find the titular poem, “They Feed They Lion,” and turns to page 34. Imagining Geoff reading out loud, Michael reads the poem to himself.

The poem knocks him flat. He’d fallen into a steady rhythm with the refrain of “They Lion grow,” the phrases building in speed upon themselves. It’s different alright.

Michael realizes that even though the book is only 76 pages long, he’ll need to spend most of the day thinking about this one poem if he’s going to wrap his mind around it. He hopes, idly, that not reading the whole collection won’t mean he’s forfeited a kiss from Geoff--if he was even being serious--but it might be a chance he’s willing to take.

Now that his stomach has settled and the throbbing in his head is just a background thought, Michael decides to investigate the food Geoff had promised was in the fridge and pads into the kitchen, flipping on the overhead light. It shines strong for a moment, but then begins to flicker. Then shines steady again.

The plastic bag in the fridge contains two Moon Pies--one chocolate, one vanilla--two bottles of Vitamin Water, a gas station sandwich, and a bag of jerky. Michael’s stomach turns a bit. Did Ramsey eat anything that didn’t have a ten-year shelf life? He pulls out one of the bottles of Vitamin Water as the kitchen light begins to flicker again.

It simply won’t do.

\---

Geoff doesn’t get out of his last meeting until after 1--later than he’d planned. And it isn’t until he’s getting back into his car on campus that he realizes he doesn’t have Michael’s phone number to text him about being late. But he also realizes that he might ought to buy them something proper to eat for dinner other than Moon Pies. So he makes a mental shopping list and heads to Safeway, checking first to make sure he doesn’t have a text from Michael.

He loads down a hand basket with ingredients he knows by heart: bone-in chicken breasts, olive oil, kosher salt, chicken stock, unsalted butter, heavy cream, vegetables, flour, baking powder, shortening. They hadn’t discussed whether or not Michael would stay a second night--and although Geoff isn’t sure if his body can handle a second night sleeping on the camping pad on top of the hard wood, he decides to buy food in case he’ll be responsible for feeding the boy Sunday breakfast, too.

He doesn’t let himself read too deeply into the impulse.

\---

“Sorry I’m late,” Geoff announces as he pushes into the apartment, arms strug with plastic grocery bags. “I thought you might end up wanting real food so I stopped by Safeway.”

“Aw Geoff,” Michael says from somewhere not immediately apparent, muffled. “You shouldn’t have.” Geoff rounds the low wall into the kitchen to find Michael lying halfway into a cabinet, face-up under his kitchen sink, his legs sprawling into the kitchen.

“Alllllright,” Geoff says, clipped. Michael shimmies out from under the sink, his hands and forearms covered with black grease.

“What ya up to under there buddy?” Geoff asks.

“Fixing--uh. Well, it’s complicated.”

Michael explains that when he noticed the kitchen light flickering, he dragged Geoff’s single chair into the kitchen to investigate after locating and switching off the breaker. At first he thought the socket and tab just needed to be scraped because the ancient things were rusty, but that still didn’t solve it--so he unscrewed everything with a house key and took it all out to look at the guts.

“The cord was all frayed and I needed to clip out the bad section, so I started to look around for a tool kit for some clippers.”

“That’s all very fascinating,” Geoff says. “And I have no idea what any of it means.”

“It means I’m trying to make your apartment less shitty for you,” he says, ignoring Geoff’s frown. “Anyway, I found a tool kit under your sink--but I also saw that you had a leak.”

“I don’t… have a tool kit.”

“Maybe the last tenant left it, then. If you’ve never even looked under your sink, it makes sense that you never noticed the leak, I guess.”

Michael explains how he clipped and rewired the socket in the ceiling, screwed it all back in, flipped the breaker back on, and started to tackle the leak.

“I turned off the supply line and started to troubleshoot because it’s dark as hell down there and I couldn’t figure out where the damn water was coming from. I almost texted you to get some plumber’s putty on the way home--”

“I have no idea what that is or where I would’ve gotten it, so I’m glad you didnt.”

“--but I finally figured out it was the drain basket. Easy fix--just had to fiddle with the gaskets. The whole thing was covered in ancient gunk though. Your landlords aren’t big on plumbing updates, I take it.”

“And… what are you doing now, exactly?”

“Well you know that fucking horrific hammering noise that happens when you run too much water?”

“Yeah I’d… been trying to ignore that, actually.”  
Michael rolls his eyes.

“I noticed that while I was testing the drain leak. It means your plumbing system's air chambers are all waterlogged,” Michael says.

“Oh right naturally,” Geoff says sarcastically.

“Right. Well, I found a big pot and drained all the water from the chamber--you’ll want to wash that pot, by the way--so the air could fill it again and restore the cushion. But the air chamber had, like, hella scales and slime.” Michael holds out his greased hands to demonstrate. “I just got that cleared and I’m putting it all back together.”

“I have no idea what any of that means,” Geoff admits. “But it sounds very impressive.”

Michael rolls his eyes.

“So… I leave you alone for, what, seven hours?” Geoff says, “And you just start… fixing my apartment.”

“I mean. I read a poem too.”

“I’m impressed, Michael,” Geoff says, no sarcasm in his voice this time.

“It’s pretty much the least I can do to repay you. Not that you were ever going to hire someone to fix all this stuff. I’ve got like five more minutes under there and you can have your kitchen back.”

Geoff lets him get back to it but stays in the kitchen.

“Where does a private school kid like you learn to do all of this?” Geoff asks. Michael’s reply is muffled from under the sink.

“My dad’s a contractor--unlicensed. My brother and I work for him every summer,” Michael says.

“Good experience, I guess. Seems like you’ve learned a lot.”

“Yeah, well. Their dumb asses are lazy anyway. Someone has to pick up the slack.”

“Are you feeling better? Hungry?”

“Hungry?” Michael echoes from under the sink. “How could I possibly be hungry with the plethora of healthy food options you left me? I mean, it was a hard choice between the egg salad sandwich flavored MRE and the chocolate-dipped hockey pucks. If that’s really how you eat, I’m shocked you haven’t had a coronary yet.”

“You might be less of a smartass if you knew what I was planning for dinner,” Geoff says.

There’s a long lull in conversation. After a moment, there’s the sound of a plastic pipe tightening and Michael is shimmying out from under the sink again.

“You’re going to make dinner?” he says, looking sweetly up at Geoff, sarcastic smirk vanished. “I can stay for dinner?” Geoff didn’t realize it had been a question for Michael.

“I’m not going to kick you out now after I held you hostage here all day,” he says with a shrug.

Michael’s bruised face is beaming.

“Anyway, go get cleaned up,” Geoff says. “I’ll find you a bath towel. You smell like a sewer.”

\---

Geoff disappears, then, and Michael works on standing up without smearing slime all over the man’s small kitchen. If his hands weren’t disgusting, he’d paw through the plastic Safeway bags. He’s curious about what Geoff might have in store for dinner.

He hears then, from the bathroom, the sound of water running. After a moment, Geoff walks back out to the living space. The water is still going.

“Are… are you _running me a bath_ , Ramsey?”

Geoff frowns at him. Michael detects the faintest hint of a blush.  

“And what if I am?”

“I could just take a shower, dude.”

“If you run a bunch of hot water over that gash, you’re going to open it right back up.”

Michael smiles and enters the bathroom. Geoff has set out a large towel for him on the sink along with a washcloth and an unopened bar of generic soap. All of the first aid supplies from last night are in a plastic bag on the counter as well. The water flowing into the tub is steaming, inviting.

“What, no bubbles, Geoff?” Michael yells over his shoulder.

“Fuck you,” Geoff says from the kitchen.

\---

Geoff has never unpacked most of his kitchen gear since he moved to the small apartment, so as soon as the groceries are laid out and the oven is preheated, he begins dragging cardboard boxes out of the cabinets. He digs out a few nice knives, cutting boards, a saucepan, a roasting pan, small food processor, small baking dishes. He realizes he can’t remember the last time he actually prepared a meal from scratch. And despite that sad reality, he still knows the recipe by heart.

He unpackages several chicken breasts, pats them dry, coats them with olive oil and a generous helping of coarse salt and pepper. He places them onto a roasting rack and into the oven.

It’s nice, he thinks, to have an excuse to cook again. The thought of cooking anything elaborate for himself had always struck him as particularly lonely. Cooking is a joyless act, he thinks, if there’s no one to share it with at the end. And there had been no one in Chewelah to enjoy his meals. Until now, of course.

It’s nice to come home to someone in his apartment, even if the person is in fact the largest source of stress in his life--the largest source of stress he can anticipate in the near future.

But it’s as if the night before, the simple confession in the parking lot, has flipped some switch inside of Geoff that he didn’t know he existed. He’s wanted Michael to be happy, certainly, for quite some time--since he started to understand who Michael Jones is, since he saw past the first impression he’d had of him as a snarky hustler, good for a few hours of fun. It’s just difficult for him to figure out how _he’s_ going to figure into the reality of Michael’s happiness.

“Hey Geoff,” Michael says from across the apartment. “Can you help me?”

In a moment Geoff is standing in the doorway to the bathroom. Michael is shirtless from the waist up in the warm bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips. Geoff feels like a lech, trying not to stare at the gentle valley between small but developed muscles that bisect his smooth torso, at the deep V of his hips. Michael is clutching at his forehead.

“I, uh, did this wrong and it’s bleeding,” Michael says, looking at him helplessly.

Geoff flips down the lid of the toilet.

“Here, sit down and let me fix it,” Geoff says. Michael obeys and Geoff gently moves his hands off of the wound. Michael has opened the cut up by taking the first of the bandages off and it’s dripping bright red blood in rivulets again. Geoff eases off the second and third butterfly bandages and then presses a sterile pad to the cut, instructing Michael to hold it while he fishes out fresh bandages from the supplies. He applies four this time, just to be sure.   
“Just try not to fuck with it for a few days, ok?” Geoff says when they’re done.

“What smells good out here?” Michael says, walking past Geoff into the living area still in his towel. Geoff notices his visible goosebumps as the boy steps from the steamy bathroom into the colder space, and Geoff catches himself taking a deep breath of the clean, warm soap smell coming off of Michael as Geoff’s eyes rake across his body inadvertently.

“Chicken,” Geoff says, clipped. “Put a shirt on.”

Michael turns around with a wicked grin, one hand gripping the towel at his hip.

“What, you afraid I’ll catch a cold?” Michael says in a sing-song voice, taking a step back to Geoff.

Geoff frowns. Michael is toying with him.

“Right yeah,” Geoff says. “Something like that.”

“You’re still in teacher mode,” Michael says, closing in on Geoff, smiling up into the man’s face. “Can’t you turn that shit off for the day?”

“Fine,” Geoff says, pressing his mouth into a line. “If you’ll put some clothes on, I’ll turn it off.”

“OK,” Michael says. “It’s a deal.”

Geoff watches as Michael strides past him into the bathroom. His back to Geoff, Michael pauses and then unceremoniously drops the towel to the bathroom floor, exposing the sweet dimples of his lower back, a stark tan line, his thin hips, and the curves of his ass.

“God _damn_ it Michael!” Geoff says, stepping forward and slamming the door closed.

“Should've been more specific,” Michael says, muffled on the other side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the full text of "They Read They Lion" visit http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/poems/levine/they_feed_they_lion.php  
> It will be discussed at least in passing in future chapters, but since it's online I didn't feel that it made sense to include it here!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read "They Feed They Lion" by Philip Levine here: http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/poems/levine/they_feed_they_lion.php
> 
> Learn how to make a chicken pot pie here: http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/chicken-pot-pie-recipe.html

When Michael emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, fully clothed this time, Geoff has changed into a different pair of sweatpants, a different sweater. Michael realizes this must be his off-duty uniform.

 _Well, the man is nothing if not consistent,_ Michael thinks.

He watches Geoff work in the limited kitchen space for a moment, pouring a carton of chicken stock into a large pot on the stovetop with his back to Michael.

“So do I get to know what you’re making or is it supposed to be a surprise?” Michael asks, leaning down to rest his elbows on the half wall, peering into the kitchen. Geoff has his hands full and doesn’t turn to Michael.

“Hm. I guess you can know,” Geoff says, distracted. “Chicken pot pie. A family recipe.”

“Seriously? I wasn’t aware people actually made shit like that from scratch,” Michael says.

“Hm.” Geoff grunts again. He’s digging through grocery bags. “Not sure about Chewelah but… They do in Alabama.”

Geoff turns to him now, a large onion in one hand and a knife in another.

“How are you with chopping?” Geoff asks. “Can I trust you with a knife?”

Michael frowns and takes the things from him.

“Yeah, give me a cutting board.”

Geoff grabs one, passes it to Michael.

“Go easy,” Geoff says. “We only have a limited number of bandages at this point.”

“Fuck you,” Michael says.

“You’ve exhausted my nursing skills,” Geoff says.

“Whaddya want,” Michael says, eying the onion and wielding the knife. “Diced? Sliced? Triced?”

“Just chop it and don’t hurt yourself please.”

They work together in silence for a moment, Michael peeling the onion and discarding the skin before slowly and methodically chopping it.

“Voila,” he says finally. Wordlessly, Geoff turns to take the chopped onion and pushes the ingredients into the simmering pot. The onions make a satisfying hiss as they hit the bottom, the smell of browned butter and salty stock and onion already filling the small apartment. Geoff dips his fingers into an open sack of flour, fluffs it into the pot, and grabs a large wooden spoon to stir the mixture.

Michael watches, rapt, slowly creeping into the kitchen until he’s right by Geoff’s side as he stirs. Geoff bumps into him hard, almost careening into the large pot, and Geoff grabs him hard to keep from falling into the stovetop. He almost pulls both of them down before righting himself.  

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Michael says. There are streaks of flour where Geoff grabbed him, one perfect handprint on the arm of his dark thermal shirt.

“Not your fault,” Geoff says. “Small kitchen.”

Absentminded, Geoff runs a tattooed hand across his face, leaving twin streaks of flour in his mustache and the front of his hair. It’s strangely adorable. Michael decides not to say anything, taking his place back on the safe side of the half wall again. Geoff hands him two carrots to chop and a handful of parsley.

They work together like this for half an hour, falling into a rhythm. At one point, Geoff sets a small food processor on the half wall and teaches Michael how to make pastry dough, mixing flour, salt, baking powder, shortening, and butter--pulsing the machine, but only enough to cut the shortening into small pieces, not entirely mixing it in--then adding ice water to the mixture.

Michael watches the man’s darkly tattooed hands with pleasure as they knead the pale ball of dough with a practiced ease. It’s the sort of thing you’d expect to see a grandma doing and there’s something strangely satisfying to Michael about the incongruity of black-patterned, rough hands rolling out the soft dough.

“What’s funny?” Geoff asks, finally satisfied with the dough, wrapping it lightly in plastic.

“I just never would’ve guessed this is your hobby,” Michael says. “It’s kind of domestic, don’t you think, for a guy with no furniture and bare walls?”

Geoff shrugs, brushing the extra flour on his hands onto a dish towel.

“I never would’ve guessed a pool shark is good at poetry analysis,” Geoff says, smiling. “I guess we’re both full of surprises.”

The oven buzzes loudly, then, and Geoff turns to stop the alarm before wrapping his hand in the dish towel, opening the oven, and retrieving the sizzling chicken. He places it softly onto the unused burners, adjusts the heat under the simmering pot, rinses his hands, starts the timer again, and turns back to Michael.

“Everything needs to sit for about half an hour,” Geoff says. “So we have some time to kill.”

Michael raises an eyebrow.

“ _Not_ what I meant,” Geoff says. “What did you think about Philip Levine?”  
  
“Goddamn it, I thought you promised you were done being a teacher for the weekend?”

“That’s not teacher-Geoff!” Geoff says, immediately defensive. “Normal Geoff is interested in poetry too.”

Michael sighs.

“I guess it shouldn’t surprise me since the only entertainment in this whole joint is books.”

Geoff snorts at that and walks over to take a seat on his bed, propping his back against the wall and stretching his legs out.

“I’ll warn you, Philip Levine is one of my favorite poets,” Geoff says, looking at the ceiling and lacing his hands behind his head. “So our whole future hangs in the balance right now if you hated it.”

Michael rolls his eyes.

“Duh, it was great,” Michael says, sitting on the opposite edge of the bed. “I don’t think you’ve given me anything to read that _wasn’t_ great.” Michael flops back on the bed then, his head resting lightly in Geoff’s lap. Geoff frowns a warning down at him.

“Dude there’s literally no other furniture in this apartment,” Michael says. Geoff furrows his brow and cocks his head at the chair a few feet away. “Alright, alright,” Michael says, still not moving from the other man’s lap. “Maybe I just need some convincing that this isn’t an English lesson?”

“What is it then?” Geoff says, looking down at Michael with at least a little amusement.   
“Just, you know,” Michael says, staring at the ceiling. “Two friends. Talking about poetry.”

“Hm,” Geoff grunts. A long pause. “You’re a shitty liar.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Michael knows he’s pushing his luck, though, and he’s quick to start an actual conversation.

“I read ‘They Feed They Lion’ since it was the name of the collection,” he says. “I wanted to read some others, but I dunno. I felt like I needed to think about that one for a while.”

“How come?” Geoff asks.

“It was just fucking _dense_ ,” Michael says. “And weird. I mean, Levine is a white guy, right?” Geoff nods. “But he’s using all of these dialects--even just in the name of the poem--it reminded me a little of that poem Gavin read in class written in patois. So on one hand, I get the feeling that the narrator is coming from the outside looking in.”

Geoff hums affirmatively but doesn’t interrupt Michael.

“There’s this incredible build, right? You start reading and it just gets _faster_ , like an engine revving up, even if you didn’t know what the words meant. So I started thinking about that and thinking about ‘the Lion’--how he says it over and over again, about feeding the Lion and the Lion growing.”  
Geoff is breathing deeply, Michael’s head rolling a bit on his lap. He’s just listening as Michael continues.

“I tried to put two and two together, you know? There’s the dialect, all of this imagery about hardening and pounding and sharpening--lots of talk about industrial shit like gasoline and creosote. It made me think of people in a factory or building a railroad or something. Like the poem is what they’re all thinking--these factory workers--as they get more and more pissed off about being factory workers.”

Geoff pushes air sharp through his nose and shakes his head slightly.

“Am I off base?” Michael asks finally. “And don’t tell me there’s no wrong answer, I’m sick of that shit.”

“No,” Geoff says. “Not at all. You’re, like, frighteningly on base.”

Michael smiles widely up at Geoff then.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” Geoff says. He looks down at Michael for a moment, some calculation going on behind his heavy-lidded blue eyes. Geoff looks back up at the ceiling then, but threads a hand through Michael’s thick hair before continuing to talk.

“We’re actually lucky with Levine because not only is he still alive,” Geoff explains, softly stroking through Michael’s hair, “he also talks a lot about his process and what he’s written about. ‘They Feed They Lion’ is written loosely about the conditions leading up to the 12th Street Riot. It was a five-day confrontation in Detroit in the late 60s.”

“Detroit,” Michael says, his eyes closed. “So, car factory workers?”

“You got it. Lots of them black, but white people too. Which explains the dialect you were picking up on.”

“I had no idea about that,” Michael says.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Geoff says.

“Are we going to read Levine in class?” Michael asks. Geoff’s hand goes still and Michael opens his eyes, looking up at Geoff, unsure of what he’s said wrong.

“I don’t… think we should talk about class,” Geoff says after a pause. “Is that ok?”

Michael shrugs softly. Geoff’s face has darkened, his gaze elsewhere, his hand still.

“It’s not easy to reconcile this whole thing, you know what I mean?” Geoff says, still not looking at Michael.  

“What’s so hard about it?” Michael says, trying to keep the words from sounding harsh, but Geoff is already going taut with anxiety, his hand falling from Michael’s hair to the bed.

“Try to put yourself in my shoes,” Geoff says. He sounds immensely sad.

“Hmm, broodingly handsome, sick tattoos, sweet mustache, poetry genius,” Michael lists off. “No, not seeing the difficult part about being you.”

“Knock it off,” Geoff says, frowning. And after a moment: “Brooding? Really, Michael?”

\---

Michael smiles and Geoff watches him push himself up and off of Geoff’s lap, before turning to face Geoff. Everything had been so nice in that moment and Geoff wants nothing more than to jump backwards in time to the moment before Michael mentioned class. He’d almost been able to forget--with the gentle weight of the boy’s head in his lap, his hands tracing patterns in Michael’s thick hair--the fact that on Monday Geoff would go back to being his teacher. But here Michael is, smiling his cherub’s smile at him.

“Geoff, do you want to know what my most vivid fantasy was about you before this weekend?” Michael asks, clearly amused with himself.

It’s such a brash statement that Geoff can’t help but half laugh before he catches himself and frowns deeply at MIchael.

“I’m not so sure I do,” Geoff says finally.

“I’ll tell you anyway,” Michael says, scooting closer to Geoff on the bed, once again invading his personal space, pushing the boundaries. Michael’s eyes are half lidded and his voice thick as he says, seriously: “I couldn’t stop thinking about getting you all alone and… _talking about books._ ”

“Jesus Christ you’re a kiss ass,” Geoff says through laughter. Michael beams, clearly pleased with himself for making Geoff laugh.

“I’m not even kidding,” Michael says. “It’s sad right? It’s just always been frustrating, getting to see you every day but only getting to talk to you with an audience.”

“Yeah, well,” Geoff says sighing deeply, running a hand gently down one of Michael’s arms. “That was by design.”

“Well, I already promised you I wouldn’t make a move on you,” Michael says.

“You’re not the one I worry about,” Geoff says, low, thinking of his dreams, thinking of how much darker _his_ ‘most vivid fantasies’ had been, even if they’d come to him in dreams, unbidden.

“Is it ok, then,” Michael says. “Talking about books, I mean? I want to be able to talk about that shit with you--without you getting mad about me reminding you that you’re my teacher.”

Geoff frowns at that.

“You can’t get mad at me every time I bring it up,” Michael says, looking wary. “It’s nobody’s fault--it’s just reality. If that means you get to dictate the rules, no overlap into class stuff, no talking about school--then I get it. But don’t just pretend.”

Geoff thinks about that for a moment.

There’s certainly no getting over the fact that Geoff had erased any sort of normal student/teacher boundary that he had built up in the past two months. It was forfeit the moment he got in his car to drive to Spokane, his heart pounding in his chest at the thought of Michael in trouble.

Someone outside looking in would only see Geoff the teacher and Michael the student--and the fact that they’d spent the last night together in a one-bed apartment.

“It’s a fucking mess,” Geoff admits.

“Well, help me make it a slightly better defined mess, Geoff,” Michael pleads, looking close to tears.

“Christ, that fucking look of yours,” Geoff says, unable to quash the instinct to do _anything_ to appease Michael, reaching out to stroke the back of his neck. Michael’s face changes immediately, back to a crooked smile.

“You’d better hope I never figure out how to do that on purpose,” Michael says.

“Oh, I pray daily that you don’t,” Geoff says. “Heaven help me if you ever do.”

Geoff would like to kiss Michael, in that moment, and for the first time in his history with the younger man, he actually thinks about the impulse instead of wantonly giving into it: the path of their faces and lips meeting, Michael’s lips sore and bright red against his pale skin, the possible trajectory it would put them on in such close quarters. He weighs carefully, pleasantly, the possibilities.

The oven buzzer blares and they both jump, muscles seizing in panic for a moment at the abrupt noise.

Geoff is the first to jump into action, silencing the buzzer, rinsing his hands. Michael watches intently from the other side of the half wall as Geoff unwraps the dough, divides it, flours a board and a pin, and begins to roll out the pastry shell that will eventually wrap their dinner.

The small kitchen has gotten hotter over the course of the afternoon and before his body threatens to start sweating, Geoff strips off his sweater and tosses it gently to the bed. It’s immediately more comfortable to work in a plain black shirt, though he knows it’s inevitable that he’ll end up covered in flour. Geoff continues to roll out dough, begins tucking neat sheets of it into two small crocks.

Next he turns his attention to the chicken breasts, quickly dispatching the bones and chopping the tender meat into neat cubes before placing them into the simmering pot. He gives the pot a few stirs. Carefully, Geoff ladles the hot stew into the two crocks. He covers each steaming crock with more dough, crimping the edges in a simple pattern. Finally, Geoff uses a paring knife to cut three slits in each pie, sprinkles more coarse salt and pepper over the top, and places both crocks into the oven, setting the timer.

When Geoff turns back to Michael, the boy is looking at him as if he’s done a particularly impressive magic trick.

“Jesus, Geoff,” Michael says. “Fucking Ina Garten over here, Christ.”

Geoff rolls his eyes.

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a huge Food Network fan, to be honest,” Geoff says.

“Yeah well, some of us have televisions. When do we get to eat that?”

“It needs to bake for about an hour.”

“Are you fucking kiddin’ me?” Michael looks outraged.

“I seem to remember offering you faster food,” Geoff says, stroking his facial hair. “And I seem to remember a certain smart ass being too good for it.”

“Fuck it,” Michael says. “I’ll eat a Moon Pie. I’m wasting away.”

Geoff opens the fridge, grabbing out what’s left of the gas station food. He take a guess and tosses Michael the chocolate one.

\---

The hour passes quicker than either of them realizes. Michael takes a seat at the desk, Geoff sitting back down on the bed. Michael tosses the volume of poetry at Geoff, asks him to read his favorite poems from the collection. Geoff is self conscious at first, reading out loud to an audience of one. But Michael seems to bask in it, appreciatively and attentively listening to the words. Asking Geoff, sometimes, to read a stanza again, or to define a word, or to explain a cultural or historical reference that Michael doesn’t understand.

“It’s kind of intimidating that you just _know_ all of these things off the top of your head,” Michael says, “and I’ve never even heard of them.”

“I’ve been on the planet longer than you have,” Geoff says. “I’ve had more time to accumulate useless knowledge.”

Michael considers that a moment.

“How old _are_ you Geoff?”

“Too old,” Geoff says, puffing a frustrated breath through his nose. “Thirty.”

“That’s not so bad,” Michael says, gently.

“I felt less ancient when I taught college classes, I guess,” Geoff admits.

“Was it a lot different?” Michael asks. “Teaching college instead of high school, I mean.”

“Yeah, it was,” Geoff says. “You get more variety, I guess. The kids in my classes--your classmates--all seem to want to succeed. I always felt like half of my students in college really couldn’t give a damn. Like I was just inconveniencing them by assigning reading. Grad classes were nice, though.”

Michael makes an affirmative noise, encouraging Geoff to continue.

“I guess if you’re in grad school, at least you want to be there,” Geoff says. “The classes are smaller, too. It’s a lot more like just sitting around with a bunch of friends talking about whatever thing you just read.”

“So why not just teach grad classes?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Geoff says. “You have to earn it--tenure, seniority. It’s a shitty system. And until you do, you get paid next to nothing, you’re constantly battling funding cuts, waging daily war against bureaucracy. I swear, my last year I think I spent more time convincing the provost that I needed to have an office than I did actually teaching my students. It wasn’t what I wanted to do and the money was shit.”

Michael thinks about that for a moment.

“You miss it,” Michael says. The boy is frighteningly insightful sometimes.

“I do,” Geoff admits.

“Obviously you don’t miss the environment,” Michael says.

“No. I miss my students,” Geoff says. “I feel like I abandoned them.”

Geoff points to a box half-hidden by books.

“Here, grab that,” he says. Michael moves the books and obediently brings the cardboard box to Geoff on the bed.

Geoff hasn’t looked at it since he packed the box into the back of his hatchback on the last day of the last semester. Too bittersweet to look at alone. But somehow easier with Michael here. He pulls off the top of the box to reveal a huge assortment of papers, photos, receipts, postcards, objects.

“This is all the shit from my old office,” Geoff says.

\---

It looks vaguely like a treasure chest to Michael, stacks upon stacks of random items and papers, some in English, some not, some handmade, some printed.

“Can I?” Michael asks, gesturing to the contents. Geoff nods.

Michael’s hands find a stack of postcards first and he flips them over: “Hey Geoff!! Greetings from Prague! We visited the Kafka Museum today, knew you would love it. Mr. Samsa sends his regards.” It’s scrawled in a pretty script. Another, in a different handwriting: “Dean demands to know when you’ll visit, Ramsey. Your reputation for facial hair and whiskey precedes you, as usual.” Still another: “The group tried Spanish absinthe--legal here, of course--trying to channel Hemingway maybe? Couldn’t help but think of you and our conversation about For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

“All from your students?” Michael says, continuing to flip through them. Geoff nods.

The volume of objects in the box is astonishing as Michael digs deeper--photos, playbills, scanned book jackets, small papers covered in verse. Artifacts, Michael realizes, of Geoff’s teaching career.

It’s dizzying for Michael to realize all of the human connections Geoff is a part of, the center of a vast web of humanity, so many different students all thinking of Geoff, bringing him tokens, sending him postcards, sharing inside jokes, bringing him photos and small gifts and things to make him smile.

“Jesus, Geoff,” he says. “You are really important to a lot of people.”

“I guess,” Geoff says with a shrug. “Was important, maybe.”

It startles Michael, the realization that Geoff went from an office full of mementos showing how important he is to his students--to sitting in the blank classroom at school. Sitting in an empty apartment every night. The enormity of Geoff’s loneliness.

“Do you wish you were closer with your students now?” Michael asks, gently.

“Hm,” Geoff chuckles. “Whatever distance I have from the majority, I think I’ve more than made up for with you.”

“I can’t control who you choose as teacher’s pet, Ramsey,” Michael says.

“Neither can I, apparently,” Geoff says, leaning towards Michael. “I’d have chosen a safer outlier, I think, if I could.”

Michael closes the distance between them before Geoff can change his mind, meeting the man’s lips softly, ignoring the tender soreness of his split bottom lip.   
Geoff kisses back, soft and slow and sweet, and together they patiently begin to make up for lost time--Geoff tracing the spot where Michael’s lips slowly part for him, Michael tilting his head, leaning into Geoff. They’re both holding back now, calm and indulgent, not entirely lost in sensation but enjoying the physical meeting, warm and wet and somehow serene this time--no worry of being discovered, no background noise. Just the warm room, the firm mattress, the shared secret and understanding.

Michael pulls away after a moment, and Geoff looks to him.

“What’s wrong?” Geoff asks.

“I think the buzzer’s about to--”

And it does, blaring obnoxiously to let them know that dinner is ready.


	17. Chapter 17

“Does it end on Monday, Geoff?”

\---

They’ve made a makeshift table on the top of the cardboard box, huddled on the floor over their steaming pot pies. The meal had begun with both men gently breaking and pushing in the top crust (“I feel like I’m defacing a masterpiece right now,” Michael had joked, his praise already over the top before he’d even tasted the meal).

Michael had heaped compliments on the dish as they ate their first steaming bites, waxing poetic about the balance of savory ingredients, the buttery pie crust, affecting a snobby accent to tell Geoff that he had “elevated a simple country meal to something with true artistry.”

“Jesus--enough, enough,” Geoff had finally said, laughing. “Just eat the damn thing.”

And after the long wait while every ingredient came together, the tortuous smell filling the apartment, Michael had been only too happy to oblige, wolfing down the rest of his portion in relative silence while enjoying the flavors, piping up only now and then to ask a question and then continuing to eat as Geoff answered.

What was Geoff’s favorite recipe, he wanted to know.  
Where had he lived in Alabama, he asked.

And finally: why didn’t Geoff cook for himself, if he’s so good at it.

“Ugh,” Geoff had groaned slightly. “You want the lazy answer or the emotionally immature but real answer?”

“Real,” Michael had said, rolling his eyes.

“It’s lonely as fuck putting this much time into something and then, what, sitting on the floor by myself to eat it? Portioning off the leftovers to bring to school in a cute little tupperware? I’ll take a gas station sandwich and sanity over that any day.”

Geoff had watched Michael as he absorbed that thought, his teeth worrying his split bottom lip.

“Gotta say, Geoff, I’m sorry that I’m the first companion you’ve had to cook for here,” Michael finally had said, frowning.

“I’m not,” Geoff said quickly without thinking. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s got to end, right?” Michael wasn’t meeting his eyes and Geoff was almost dizzy with the abrupt shift in their warm conversation.

The question felt like an accusation. Geoff wasn’t sure how to respond. He set his fork down to give Michael his full attention. Michael was waiting for an answer and he finally looked to Geoff after a moment.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Michael,” Geoff said, gently.

“After dinner, you’ll take me home. And if not tonight, then tomorrow.”

The statement made Geoff smile in spite of himself. Michael looked like he was a man headed to the gallows--not someone headed back to class on Monday.

“Michael, of course you have to go back home,” Geoff had said through a smile. “You know you can’t live with me. But I’ll still see you every day. I’ll still care about you.”

“But no shared meals,” Michael had said, dropping his eyes to the makeshift tabletop. “We’ll say goodbye and then what? Just like before? Does it end on Monday, Geoff?”

\---

It’s the question Geoff knows they’ve both been thinking about since Michael arrived in the stuffy apartment. It’s the thing that’s been at the back of his mind as he’s enjoyed the last 24 hours more than he’s enjoyed any day in Chewelah so far. Geoff heaves himself to his feet and takes a few steps around the box to sit cross-legged facing Michael.

Michael doesn’t turn to face him.

“We need to talk about that,” Geoff says. “Like adults.”

Michael snorts softly, frowning.

“Yeah, that’s about two months overdue,” he says.

“OK, OK, shame me all you want,” Geoff says. “I’m a fucking dick and I did the wrong thing. I should’ve treated you like the adult that you are. But I didn’t know you yet, Michael.”

Michael still hasn’t turned to face him. Geoff presses his hand into one of Michael’s and he looks to Geoff, sees him smiling, and finally turns his body to face him. Geoff cups his hands around Michael’s in a gesture that’s almost pleading.

Geoff wants to tell Michael every little detail that now convinces him that Michael is worth the risk.

Geoff wants to improvise an ode to the younger man right then and there, detailing everything he’d come to learn about Michael Jones, his richness of thought that fascinated Geoff so much, his emotional maturity that Geoff knows the boy doesn’t even realize he possesses, his ability to make leaps and bounds in logic that makes Geoff’s heart open up in a painful way that recalls every student that he’s ever wanted to succeed, the potential he sees in Michael’s life, the vast dizzying array of opportunities in his future, the pleasure he feels every day at seeing Michael realize more and more how smart he actually is.

He could write volumes, too, to Michael’s physical form--Geoff is ready to admit that. At least to himself. It wouldn’t take long to produce a novella just outlining Michael’s facial expressions, the lilt and fall of his brow as he works through a tricky thought in silence, the pout of lips that--in the cold weather--became ruddy even indoors. Later chapters could go further south, to the young man’s collarbones which, while fascinating, Geoff had only seen for the first time today, to the flat plane of his stomach which exists like a dreamt-of landscape in Geoff’s memory, the thatch of sparse hair below, the surprisingly strong hands threading through Geoff’s hair as he had knelt and worshiped Michael’s body.

There’s so much he’d like to tell Michael and there’s nowhere to begin. Michael is staring at him. Waiting.

“I couldn’t even acknowledge you had a first name for the better part of two months,” Geoff admits.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ noticed,” Michael says with a frown.

“Where do you go?” Michael asks after a moment, obviously frustrated. “When you do that. You sit there like a statue for five minutes and then you come back with some lame comment about fucking salami or saying my last name. It’s like you’re on another planet.”

“I’m coming up with brilliant shit to say,” Geoff says. “And then talking myself out of saying one word of it.”

“Well could you _not_?” Michael says.

“Put yourself in my shoes--seriously this time,” Geoff says. “I mean look around yourself, dude. Would you trust yourself if you were this alone and someone so seemingly perfect just crash landed in your life?”

“There’s not a lot about this situation I’d describe as perfect, Geoff.”

“I know that--that’s not what I’m talking about. Fuck the situation for a second. You could have never set foot in my classroom and be twice as old as I am and I still don’t think I’d have trusted myself.”

“I guess I don’t know what you mean when you say you can’t trust yourself with me.”

Geoff’s having a hard time putting any of it into words. He knows the right thing to say until he needs to talk about himself and then it all gums up.

“It means I’m an emotional idiot. And I’ve wasted two months treating you like a landmine.”

“So you’re done--done for good--with treating me like a ticking time bomb?” Michael says, hiding a smile at the edge of his lips.

“I am,” Geoff promises. And after a moment: “If you want to stay with me tonight, Michael, the invitation is open.”

Michael does smile then, wide.

\---

It does not go unnoticed by Michael that Geoff has sidestepped his question about Monday. But he’s a fast learner, and he’s already figured out that Geoff starts acting like a nervous prey animal any time they start talking about emotions--needing to be lured out into the open, and even then too jumpy, too wary to be pinned down.

He’ll get an answer, Michael knows. But he’ll need to be patient unless he wants to continue to deal with a Geoff that acts like a startled jackrabbit.

For the moment, it seems they’ve reached a tentative peace.

Michael breaks the stillness by standing, scooping up their empty dishes, beginning to clean up after the meal. Geoff goes to stand, too.

“Please, just chill,” Michael says. “Let me clean up.” Geoff shrugs.

Michael rolls up the sleeves of his thermal shirt and fills one trough of the sink with hot, soapy water, tucking the dish towel into the front of his pants. As he begins to tackle cleaning the array of utensils and vessels, Geoff joins him in the kitchen.

“An appreciative diner who does all of the dishes,” Geoff says. “What more could a chef wish for?”

Slowly, gently, Geoff presses the length of his body up against Michael’s back before resting his hands on Michael’s hips, slid underneath his shirt to sit lightly on top of his waistband.

“Your hands are fucking freezing dude,” Michael says, fighting arousal at the unexpected contact, the warm intimacy of the moment.

“Yeah, keep on pretending like you care,” Geoff says low in his ear. Geoff rests his head on Michael’s shoulder for a minute as he strokes his cold thumbs over the other man’s hipbones and Michael doesn’t know if he’s supposed to keep washing or give into the instinct to turn and face Geoff.

It doesn’t matter after a moment because Geoff says, “I’m going to grab a shower,” before detaching himself and disappearing.

\---

Geoff takes his time in the shower, enjoying the comforting steam that quickly fills the small bathroom. Afterwards, he drapes a towel around his waist, stepping into the cooler hallway to find a change of clothes that isn’t covered in flour, and then stepping back into the bathroom. He hears Michael banging away in the kitchen and is amazed that it’s actually taking him so long to clean up. But once he’s dressed and he goes to investigate, Geoff finds Michael in the middle of three large cardboard boxes.

Geoff clears his throat and Michael looks up.

“Well _someone_ had to unpack your kitchen for you,” Michael says, unapologetic for being up to his armpits in Geoff’s things. “You obviously weren’t going to.”

“If I left you alone overnight, I think I’d come back to a fully decorated apartment,” Geoff says.

\---

Michael doesn’t know why he’s so compelled to make Geoff’s apartment more livable. There are so many small things that Geoff hasn’t done for himself that would make the place more comfortable and even in the short time he’s been confined to the studio, it’s driving Michael up a wall. So he finds himself filing away spatulas and ladles, sliding cutting boards in the space between the wall and the microwave, setting up a small block of knives and folding clean dish towels into a drawer.

He keeps an eye on Geoff as he crosses the room to the corner full of books and chooses a large hard-bound volume before reclining on his mattress.

“OK, not trying to be a dick here,” Michael says as he puts away silverware, “But is this really what a typical weekend is like for you?”

“What do you mean?” Geoff asks, folding the book into his lap.

“Like… sitting on your bed, in silence, reading?”

Geoff laughs lightly.

“To be honest? There’s usually a _lot_ more drinking. Especially lately.”

Michael had definitely noticed the sheer volume of liquor in the kitchen, the large stock of beer in the fridge.

“But yeah, this is basically it. Drinking, reading. I like it quiet. There’s usually a lot of grading and planning to do for school, too.”

“Not this weekend?”

“It can wait,” Geoff says, picking the book back up. “Your class is probably ready for a rest anyway. Hell, maybe we’ll even watch a movie this week.”

“Oh fuck yeah,” Michael says. “That’s a lifehack for becoming a well-liked high school teacher, by the way. I’m not sure if they teach you that in college.”

Michael finds a place for the last items from the kitchen supplies and begins to fold the three large cardboard boxes flat. He tucks them on the other side of the half wall and decides to take a chance, kicking off his shoes, grabbing Geoff’s camping pillow from the pad by the window, and joining Geoff on the mattress.

“What are you reading now?” Michael asks, laying parallel to Geoff and peering at the ceiling, wishing very much that Geoff’s lap weren’t taken up with the large volume.

“A collection of Pushcart Prize poems,” Geoff says. “It’s a giant mish mash of contemporary poetry. Levine is in here a few times.”

“So read me one,” Michael says.

Geoff reads him “Pig 311” by Margaret Ryan, which begins with a quote:

 

> “In an experimental atomic explosion off the island  
> of Bikini… among the animals exposed to  
> radiation was one pig, bearing the number 311. He  
> was placed into an old warship and was thrown into  
> the sea by the blast. He swam to an atoll, lived   
> for a long time and procreated in a perfectly  
> normal manner.”  
> \---One Hundred Thousand Years of Man’s  
> Unknown History, by Robert Charroux

After that, the poem is four simple stanzas from the point of view of the pig. Michael can tell by the sound of Geoff’s voice that he’s smiling widely by the end of the poem.

“That’s ridiculous,” Michael says, smiling too. “A poem about an atomic pig having babies and it won some sort of prize?”

Geoff shrugs, looking over to him.

“Even poets and editors have a sense of humor,” he says.   
  
“Are there more funny ones?” Michael asks.

“Plenty. Maybe not as pithy as Margaret Ryan…” he says, beginning to turn through the pages. Michael is astounded that Geoff can remember enough about the hefty volume to be able to locate what he’s looking for, but sure enough, he begins to read a second one.

“Here’s one: ‘Biblical Also-Rans’ by Charles Harper Webb. I’ve always liked this one.”

He reads Michael a poem where the poet laments the numerous non-famous Biblical characters--the ones no one is named after. And then he turns to yet another poem, “I Knew I’d Sing” by Heather McHugh, where the poet tells the story of her mother washing her mouth out with soap after she’d used the word “cunt” for the first time.

Geoff keeps reading, unbidden now, turning here and there to poems he’s reading for the first time and poems he’s read many times before. Michael throws in a comment here or there, but mostly listens, breathing soft and deep on the bed beside Geoff.

He comes eventually to one titled “A Poem with No Ending,” a 13-page poem written by Philip Levine.

“You might like the one,” he ventures. “Levine wrote it 16 years after ‘They Feed They Lion’ was first published.”

Michael hums his assent and laces his fingers together on his belly, listening.

 

> “So many poems begin where they  
> should end, and never end.  
> Mine never end, they run on  
> book after book, complaining  
> to the moon that heaven is wrong  
> or dull, no place at all to be.  
> I believe all this...”

The poem traces Levine’s life over 500 lines and Geoff loses itself in the steady rhythm and plain language.

Michael interrupts a bit at first, asking about Goethe, wanting to know where Sevilla is, but eventually he grows silent and Geoff assumes his thoughts have fallen into the rhythm of the words as well.

 

> “... Later I slept alone and dreamed  
> of the home I never had and wakened  
> in the dark. A silver light sprayed  
> across the bed, and the little  
> rented room ticked toward dawn.  
> I did not rise. I did no go  
> to the window and address  
> the moon. I did not cry  
> or cry out against the hour  
> or the loneliness that still  
> was mine, for I had grown  
> into the man I am, and I  
> knew better…”

Michael’s breathing is rhythmic and heavy as Geoff turns to the last page, softly reads the last of the 500 lines:

 

>   
> “...The sea  
> and I breathe in and out as one.  
> Maybe this is done at last  
> or for now, this search for what  
> is never here. Maybe all that  
> ancient namesake sang is true.  
> The voice I hear now is  
> my own night voice, going out  
> and coming back in an old chant  
> that calms me, that calms  
> \--for all I know--the waves  
> still lost out there.”

He closes the large volume quietly at the end, knowing without looking at Michael that he has fallen asleep. Geoff places the book softly on the floor by the bed. Michael looks peaceful despite the bandages across his forehead, the crimson bruise around his eye beginning to bloom into the white skin around it in pink and yellow patterns. It’s unreal to think that less than 24 hours ago, Michael was about to be cornered in an alley, alone, an hour away.

“Hey,” Geoff says, finally, placing a hand on Michael’s arm. “Get in bed.”

Michael only wakes gently.

“Fuck, sorry Geoff,” he mumbles. “I wanted to hear the end.”

“Tomorrow,” Geoff says. “Get in bed.”

But before Geoff can protest, Michael’s moving heavily to the camping pad, pulling off his jeans, sliding into the sleeping bag, mumbling a goodnight, and turning to the wall.

With Michael falling back into rhythmic breaths, Geoff picks the volume of poetry back up, re-reading Levine’s poem silently and enjoying the nuances he notices the second time, the way that the poem is so different to him today than it was when he read it 10 years ago.

Sleep comes, as it often does, very slowly to Geoff. A familiar anxiety creeps in with the dark, which he quashes by rising, washing his face, emptying his bladder, and quietly pouring two fingers of bourbon. Turning back the bed, he slips silently under the comforter. Drowsiness comes eventually as he sips the spirit and loses himself in a long Southern gothic verse, and soon he’s dreaming of the poem’s rolling gray hills, of wood smoke on the walls of chimneys.

\---

Sometime after midnight, Geoff drifts into consciousness at the sound of a flushing toilet--and then a movement close behind him. More than half asleep, he rolls to his other side in time to see Michael tucking himself into the unoccupied side of the bed.

Geoff grunts at him with the laziness of an insomniac who will do almost anything to avoid being woken up all the way during a deep sleep. In the dim light Michael’s face is naked emotion, pleading wordlessy with Geoff, and it feels like a dream.

“Let me stay,” he says quietly, after a moment, not really a question.

Geoff squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them--he’s not sure if it’s just a minute later, or if he’s fallen back asleep for some passage of unknown time--Michael has flipped on his side facing away from Geoff.

Tired of stopping himself, exhausted of being vigilant with impulses, Geoff pulls Michael to his chest, one arm tucked under his own head and the other across the smaller man’s waist. Michael pushes pleasantly back into Geoff and for a moment they’re both sleepily fitting their bodies together, knees tucked into knees, forearm pressing into belly, shoulders softly meeting chest.

\---

When Geoff comes back to consciousness, sunlight is streaming in from the apartment’s window and the pocket of space between the base sheet and the comforter is warmer than he’s accustomed to. Michael is facing him now, and Geoff can feel a hand snaking under his shirt, making its way up his chest.

“Michael,” he says, still half dreamy, not ready to open his eyes for the day.

“Good morning,” Michael says softly.

“How early?” Geoff demands, _really_ not wanting to be awake yet, _really_ not ready to wrap his mind around the reality of Michael Jones in his bed.

“Does it matter?” Michael says--and his voice tells Geoff he’s smiling, even though Geoff’s eyes are closed again. “I can’t sleep anymore. You should wake up.”   
  
Michael scoots closer under the comforter, his knees meeting Geoff’s, a second warm hand moving under Geoff’s shirt.

“You’re a prick,” Geoff says, breathing deeply, _so_ enjoying Michael’s touch in spite of himself, _so_ enjoying their proximity.

“Please, Geoff,” Michael says softly. Michael begins to kiss him on the neck then, planting his lips soft, beginning where Geoff’s jaw meets his ear and then moving down. Geoff’s breath hitches at the surge of pleasure and consciousness it brings, and finally he opens his eyes and allows them to focus.

“What was all that about not making a move on me,” Geoff protests, his voice still graveley from sleep.  
  
“I fuckin lied,” Michael says into Geoff’s neck, his mouth pressed hard now just above the collar of Geoff’s t-shirt--and finally the proximity and the tension and the months amount to too much, the scale tipping in that moment, and as Geoff twists a hand into Michael’s shirt to bring the younger man’s face up to meet his own, Michael whispers a quiet “fuck” before their lips crash together.

The staid dance of the past 24 hours--the past two months--is gone as the two men kiss so deeply that it feels like they run the risk of bleeding into one another, Geoff surrendering at last to the current.

\---

The kiss Michael shares with Geoff that morning is entirely different from any he’s experienced with the man so far--with anyone, for that matter.

Their kisses in the bar that late summer night had been rushed and teasing. Their kiss in the classroom, dizzying and dangerous. And then, yesterday, tender and slow.

This morning, Michael feels like the other man is systematically dismantling his sanity--and he’s not sure if it’s Geoff or if it’s the situation or if it’s the build up, but Michael is so lost in the sensation--the man’s lips, his stubble, his tongue, his tongue _ring_ \--that he feels like he could drift away on it and never come back and that would be a fine way to go, in the end. Michael kisses back, but the other man is determined, alternately stroking into his mouth with the familiar tongue ring and sucking lightly on Michael’s sore lower lip. And when finally Michael pulls back, needing to breathe and to remember his own name, Geoff begins to kiss his chin, down his neck.

It takes nothing more than that for Michael’s half-arousal of the morning to become almost uncomfortably insistent, and as Geoff kisses wet into his neck, Michael rocks gently into the other man. Geoff tangles his hand into Michael’s shirt, at that, and suddenly Michael finds himself being lifted, hoisted from the bed so that he’s laying lightly on top of the other man, and he frees himself then from the tangle of sheets and comforter behind them before pressing himself back down to kiss Geoff again.  

Geoff breaks the kiss this time, after a moment, and instead of moving on to plant kisses in a different direction, Geoff's body stills.

“Michael,” he says seriously. “Is this the decision you’ve made? This is something you want?”

Michael kisses him again as an answer, his hands reaching to the hem of Geoff’s shirt--but Geoff won’t let the question go unanswered.

“I’m serious,” Geoff says, pushing Michael away slightly so that Michael can see his eyes, heavy-lidded and grave, impossibly blue in the morning light.

“OK Geoff. Yes,” Michael says, impatiently. “You have my full consent. This is a decision that I have made. Good enough?” Michael begins to kiss down Geoff’s neck, to worry the hem of his shirt again.

“We can stop, Michael,” Geoff says, dreamily now. “Any time, I won’t be mad.”  

“Enough Geoff,” Michael growls into his neck. “This isn’t my first time at the fucking rodeo, ok? Relax already.”

Geoff pulls him into a deep kiss, apparently satisfied with the answer, the man’s hands reaching up into the back of Michael’s shirt, stroking his back, his shoulders, his hips, bucking Michael slightly with need. Impatient, Michael pulls the bottom of Geoff’s shirt up over his belly, and Geoff props himself up for a moment, pulling the shirt the rest of the way over his head.

“Finally I get to see the rest of these fucking tattoos,” Michael says with a smile, admiring each sleeve of dark designs as it continues across Geoff’s shoulders, spilling down onto his chest but leaving a neat collar of naked skin around his neck. Geoff rolls his eyes.

“You could’ve just asked,” he says.

“Yeah right,” Michael says, running a hand softly over tattooed skin. He kisses across the top border of the patterns. Geoff hums appreciatively and Michael continues, his hands finding any skin they can, enjoying the depth of the man’s chest, the compact muscles beneath the skin. Every moment of it is bliss, Geoff moving into his touch as he traces, at last, Geoff’s ribs, his sides, his soft belly, reaching down to stroke the man’s hips through the fabric of his pants. How many times had he thought about what it would be like, Michael thinks. And how much sweeter it is, here together in the morning, the reality of it.

Michael’s mouth follows patiently behind his hands, kissing wet down Geoff’s chest, each new sensation rewarded as the other man becomes more and more vocal with wordless satisfied hums and groans, Geoff alternately raking a hand through his hair and stroking his neck, his shoulders. Michael feels a strong hand at his back, then, and Geoff pulls his thick shirt off with no hint of ceremony. The apartment air is momentarily cold on his back, but Geoff pulls him down into a kiss and Michael feels a warm rush as so much of their bare skin meets for the first time.

After a moment, Michael shifts his weight so that he’s kneeling now between Geoff’s legs, admiring the scene before him, the long lusted-after object of his desire half naked and moaning before him like a dream. He begins again to stroke Geoff’s hips, enjoying the fact that the thick fabric of Geoff’s dark sweatpants only barely conceals his erection, pressing down his leg in a heavy outline.

Sneaking a look at Geoff, Michael finds that the man is watching his every move intently, eyes so heavy lidded that they're barely open flashing between Michael’s face and his hands--and Michael takes great pleasure in that moment, stroking through the soft and heavy fabric from the top of Geoff’s hips to the beginning of his groin--before finally palming Geoff’s erection. He’s rewarded by a resonant hum, and when he looks back to Geoff’s face, the man has let his head roll back in pleasure.

Michael thinks he would be content to live in this moment forever, planting sure strokes on Geoff’s cock through his pants, enjoying the sights and sounds the situation has to offer him. He could die and let the moment spiral off into infinity or freeze forever like an insect in amber and never grow tired of it, the muscles across Geoff’s chest and thick torso flexing and relaxing, the twitch of Geoff’s dick as he traces it there, kneeling between the man’s legs.

But as Geoff begins to buck at the touch, Michael finally feels a bit of mercy, and he hooks his fingers into the waist of the other man’s pants, grabbing his underpants too. Shuffling back, Michael eases the garments off, Geoff finally looking down again, propping himself up on his elbows as Michael discards the pants on the side of the bed.

Freed, Geoff’s erection bobs in front of his hips and Michael’s face goes hot with the realization that Geoff’s dick is pierced.

“Don’t you dare fucking laugh, Jones,” Geoff says, both a smile and a warning on his face.

“Jesus fucking Christ Geoff,” Michael says--and the warning is already too late because he _is_ laughing. “I should have fucking known you’d have a _pierced goddamn cock_... And we all thought your _tongue piercing_ was scandalous,” he says.

“If I hear the _slightest breath_ of this to anyone,” Geoff says, “I will find you and _I will murder you_.”

Michael shushes him, smiling, and he brings a hand to the base of Geoff’s cock, admiring it as the initial shock at the jewelry wears off. Geoff is well endowed and the piercing is in nice proportion to the erection: the jewelry gauged thick, silver and bold, a captive ball and ring in a traditional Prince Albert, the ring entering through the tip and emerging below the head. It’s just one more unexpected detail about Geoff that he’s learned this weekend, one more thing to add to the catalogue of things he’d never expected to know about the man.

Michael shifts his weight again, keeping his grip on the base of Geoff’s cock while he presses kisses into Geoff’s lower belly, slowly migrating left and then right, tracing licks into Geoff’s hips and basking in the moans he receives in response, the soft throbs of the cock in his hand. He kisses and strokes down Geoff’s thighs, until he reaches the edges of a thatch of thick hair at his groin, and then he lets his free hand take over, caressing the skin surrounding the base of Geoff’s cock.

After a moment, he lays his hand along Geoff’s length and begins to kiss light and dry from the base to the tip, letting his lips drag across the soft skin. Geoff hums in the sunlight above him like a plucked guitar string before sighing deeply.

\---

Geoff is lost in sensation as Michael strokes and kisses him. Never in his wildest dreams or most vivid, explicit nightmares, had he pictured the boy so confidently handling him--but Michael's eagerness to please, his attention to detail washes over Geoff in waves of building pleasure. He watches Michael as he lavishes attention on his cock, moving now to lay between Geoff's legs, a smile of pure enjoyment on his face as he plants licks and caresses on his shaft, across his thighs. He’s genuinely enjoying himself, not just putting on a show for Geoff, and the look on his face makes something burn pleasantly at the base of his balls.

Michael finally begins to lick long strokes across the head but gingerly avoids the thick jewelry at first. He moves a finger to trace the ring, looking curious up to Geoff.

“Is it ok?” Michael asks, unsure. “I can… play with it?”

Geoff chuckles deep and sonorous, nodding. He’d like nothing more.

Michael has an intense look of concentration on his face, chewing his lower lip as usual, as he continues to trace the ring with his fingertip before finally spinning the jewelry gently. Geoff hums to encourage him.

“Does that feel good?” he asks. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“It feels amazing,” Geoff says.  

Gently, Michael lowers to trace the edges of the piercing with his tongue, peeking up at Geoff over and over to make sure he isn’t doing anything wrong.

“You won’t hurt me, Michael,” he says finally, reaching down to tug lightly on the piercing to prove that it’s not sensitive. Michael’s eyes go wide, and when his tongue finds the piercing again, he is more enthusiastic, lapping attention around the entry points before laying wet strokes around the rest of the head, then back down the shaft. Geoff lets his neck go loose again, his head falling back onto the pillow as Michael slowly takes his cock into his mouth.

“Don't chip a tooth,” Geoff says, smiling, and Michael hums an acknowledgement to the warning down onto his dick. With the piercing and his size in general, Michael can’t work his mouth too far down Geoff’s cock, but the sensation is so sweet that it doesn’t matter, and Geoff hums his name into the air above him.

“Jesus, Michael,” he says, low. “Good lord.”

Michael has snaked a hand around Geoff’s base as he bobs steadily, producing soft, obscene noises, his other hand finding Geoff’s balls and rolling them lightly. Every noise and hum from Geoff makes Michael more enthusiastic, and Geoff begins to babble at him because the payoff is so sweet. “Lord, that’s so good, Michael,” he says, words spilling out. “That’s amazing.”

Yes, he fumbles and chokes, the small reminders that Michael has a decade less experience than Geoff does, but what he lacks in finesse, Michael certainly makes up for in enthusiasm. To look at him, Geoff thinks, you’d assume he’s getting off on it just as much as Geoff is.

\---

Michael works into a rhythm, sucking and stroking Geoff’s cock, delighting in making the man moan his name over and over, but before he can build much speed, Geoff has a hand on his shoulder, guiding him back up. He moves with Geoff’s guidance, on his hands and knees, again straddling Geoff’s hips, and he makes a show of wiping his mouth and pressing his weight down across the man. Geoff murmurs appreciately--he’s practically purring, Michael thinks--and when Michael reaches a hand down to stroke his own erection through his boxers, Geoff groans at the sight.

“Get those off,” he says, clipped, raking a tattooed hand up Michael’s torso, and the brusque tone makes Michael’s cock throb hard. Michael tries to balance and shimmy out of the garment while on top of Geoff, but finds himself again being moved in a force out of his control, Geoff sweeping him in one movement so that Michael finds his back pinned against the bed and the larger man on top of him.

“Nevermind,” Geoff mumbles, pulling the boxers off neatly and tossing them to the side. Geoff props himself close on top of Michael, leaning only some of his weight down onto the man beneath him, while his other hand wastes no time finding Michael’s neglected cock.  
  
“Oh Jesus Geoff,” Michael chokes out, and his body coils up into the touch. Geoff sighs happily and looks down at his own handiwork, gently stroking Michael’s dick, his thighs, his balls. His cock pulses with the teasing, and Geoff presses more of his weight down onto him.

Rough pleasure jolts through Michael’s body as he reaches up, grabbing at Geoff’s shoulders, around his neck, his traps, his muscles straining and more defined now as he holds his weight above Michael. Geoff presses down on him for another moment before shifting his weight and moving down to position his shoulders between Michael’s thighs, firmly moving Michael’s legs so that they’re spread wide with his hips tilted in the air.

Michael feels strangely exposed for a second, until Geoff licks a wet stripe from the base of his balls up to his navel, then going back to lavish attention on every space in between. He teases every inch of Michael, lightly biting and sucking his way from his hips to his balls and back again, rolling his tongue piercing against the most sensitive areas. Michael’s coming to pieces above him, curses and praise spilling out of him: “Jesus, Fuck, Geoff, Jesus, Geoff, goddamn it…”

Michael leans up to take in the sight: Geoff, eyes half-lidded, tongue swirling obscenely along Michael’s cock, the jewelry in his tongue catching the light every so often, his darkly tattooed hands stroking his dick, his thighs. Michael would love to memorize every detail as Geoff establishes a steady tempo, taking Michael’s cock in his mouth and swallowing strokes up and down it.

Michael’s breath hitches when Geoff grabs his hips, tilts them into the air, and Geoff licks down, applying a steady, wet pressure to his taint. He moves one hand to Michael’s cock, then, as he begins to apply methodical attention to a new area--stroking and teasing the sensitive skin surrounding his ass. Michael’s curses and moans go up an octave then, his voice and his babble falling completely out of his control--”Oh holy shit Geoff, holy shit”--as the man begins adeptly rimming him, alternating steady laps of his tongue across the sensitive hole with teasing proddings, sweet pressure from the jewelry in his mouth, while still maintaining his attention to Michael’s cock with his left hand.

It’s an incredible variety of sensations and Michael would be happy to drown in it for weeks, never coming up for air. But after a moment or two, Geoff pulls off and crawls on all fours to the head of the bed. Michael lets out an involuntarily whimper, and Geoff gently says “Just hold on,” fishing his hand behind the mattress, finally producing a small plastic bottle and taking his place again between Michael’s legs.

\---

Geoff makes up for the moment of lost time, swallowing along Michael’s cock while at the same time flipping open the cap of lube with one hand and liberally coating his fingers before snapping it closed and setting it on the sheets next to them.

With his dry hand, Geoff holds the base of Michael’s cock as he lets it slip out of his mouth, and he begins long, lazy strokes with his hand. After a moment, with the other hand, Geoff gently eases a slicked finger into Michael. He goes impossibly slow. His fingers are thick, he knows, and Michael is improbably tight, warm. The boy whines on the mattress above him.

“You ok?” Geoff asks, suddenly anxious that he’s made a misstep.

“Jesus, Geoff,” Michael says, breathing hard. “Fuck, that’s good.” And it’s only a moment before Michael’s hips are working slightly, forcing friction and movement around the finger inside of him, building momentum on his own.

Geoff feels like he could come now just from the sight of it: Michael’s pale body writhing on the mattress, his eyebrows knitted above pleading eyes as he begins to move, how he can’t seem to stop from fucking himself down onto Geoff’s finger.

“You’re too damn much, Michael,” he says, low, continuing to stroke Michael softly.

“Fuck, fuck, please Geoff”--and he’s really begging now, Geoff’s name spilling out almost indistinguishable from the pleading and cursing. He’s already pliant after a moment, relaxed around Geoff’s wide, tattooed digit. Geoff carefully slides the finger out, Michael gasping, and Geoff grabs the bottle a second time for more lubricant--slicking two fingers thoroughly and efficiently before pressing slowly into Michael again.

To Geoff’s surprise, the volume of Michael’s babble drops abruptly and he begins in a husky whisper, “Oh goddamn it, Geoff,” and continues in a steady stream of obscenity as Geoff pushes his fingers deeper. It takes a moment, now, for Michael to relax around him, and he’s no longer thrusting up wantonly--and Geoff waits until he hears Michael’s breathing go slower to crook his fingers into the fleshy button of Michael’s prostate. Michael goes boneless on the mattress, all of his energy channeling into his groin, his ass, and moaning.

He keeps it up for a few long minutes--stroking Michael's cock gently with one hand and letting the boy lightly fuck himself on his other--and he begins to layer steady praise over Michael’s obscenity: “Jesus Michael, you’re so good, you’re so tight, you’re amazing Michael.” Finally he withdraws his fingers and Michael whines, going incoherent, peering up at Geoff through hazy eyes. Geoff rises over Michael, his hands again finding the bottle, slicking more lube into both hands now, and he places a confident hand on Michael while now stroking himself for the first time. He watches Michael’s face as he eyes Geoff’s busy hands.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Michael?” he asks seriously--breaking from the tone of their almost incoherent dirty talk.

Michael swallows audibly.

“Yeah,” he says, lust thickening his voice. “I do.”

“I can finish us like this, Michael, right now. We don’t have to.”

“Geoff, Jesus,” Michael says, more himself now, a smile finally finding its way to his face. “For the love of God, fuck me already.”

\---

Michael watches from his back as the white, crooked smile across Geoff’s face softens then, his expression going slack as he easily lifts Michael’s hips off the bed a few more inches. After a moment, he can feel Geoff’s cock against his ass. He breathes deep, willing himself to relax even while all of his muscles feel coiled with arousal. The man is utterly unhurried as he begins to push into Michael, searching Michael’s face to make sure he doesn’t want to stop.

And other than the odd sensation of the man’s jewelry passing through that tight ring of muscle, it’s not much of a struggle to accommodate Geoff--not after he’d worked himself, driven himself crazy moving on the man’s fingers. Geoff is mercifully slow as he pushes into Michael, holding Michael by the hips now, and once he’s sunk to the hilt, filling Michael extraordinarily, impossibly, he asks “Are you OK?”

“Yeah--Jesus--Yes, Geoff,” Michael utters, not even sure if it’s English anymore. He doesn’t know if it’s Geoff’s size or his jewelry or the angle or just the sheer arousal but Michael has never felt harder, immediately on the edge of a crashing orgasm--and as Geoff begins his first slow stroke inside of Michael, he’s no longer thinking straight, his senses absolutely scrambled, vision and sound and touch all bleeding together into a perfumed fog of pleasure.

\---

Michael’s eyes look like he’s gone somewhere else as Geoff begins to fuck him, and Geoff wants him back.

He bucks his hips softly, shifting his weight into Michael and leaning over him, slowly stroking into Michael and catching him in a deep kiss, burying a hand in his hair. After a moment, Michael kisses back, sucking on Geoff’s lower lip. Michael’s hips begin to grind into him, meeting Geoff’s thrusts in rhythm.

“You with me again, Michael?” he asks, panting at the sweet sensations washing over him, the tight warmth below him, the sight of Michael looking wide-eyed up at him.

“With you, Geoff,” Michael says, nodding and breathless.

As their bodies work together, against each other, Michael becomes more pliant, more active, kissing Geoff’s neck, pulling at his hips, encouraging Geoff in every way to pump into him faster, more confidently. Michael begins to moan in rhythm with their movements and he works a hand between the two of their bodies to stroke his own erection.

Geoff repositions himself then, sitting back on his knees again and hitching up Michael’s hips off the bed--and as Michael begs him, pleads with Geoff to go harder, to please fuck him, Geoff replaces Michael’s hand with his own, stroking Michael’s dick firmly in tempo with his thrusts.

“It’s so good, Geoff,” Michael says, his brows knit together again, his eyes watering. “Jesus Christ it’s fucking amazing _oh just like that--please, harder--_ ” And now Geoff’s own world has gone hazy. The only things reaching him are the feeling of their bodies moving together in time with Michael’s obscene pleas, the burn of the muscles in his torso, his legs, as he fucks into Michael--

“I’m going to come, Michael,” he says, brusque and low.

“ _I’m coming--_ ” Michael says abruptly--and he does, his body juttering and clenching, his babbling continuing a few decibels higher as Geoff strokes him, as Geoff buries himself, crashing against Michael's prostate, and Michael comes painting pale ribbons across his own soft stomach, the valley of his chest, his eyes watering, a stray tear breaking off and streaming down the unbruised side of his face as his expression goes lax with pleasure, his ass tight and warm and tense around Geoff.

“Michael, I’m coming,” Geoff says, barely recognizing his own voice, so thick with arousal, his senses shocked by the sight of Michael wrecked by his own orgasm, Geoff’s world exploding in a pleasure that begins deep in his stomach, that feels like something seismic is cracking profoundly open inside of him and shattering into an unfathomable orgasm, and he gives in utterly, losing all sense of self to the shock waves that rock through him, muscles tensing, almost vibrating, as he comes into Michael with one thrust, two, three.

Breathing hard, he lowers himself to his elbow over Michael as he rides the end of his orgasm. Michael is already back to his senses, smiling up at Geoff, spent, peering through a haze of arousal. Sweating, panting, Geoff places a kiss high on Michael’s forehead, not ready to disengage yet, muscles feeling sweet and spent and not entirely his own anymore.

“Jesus Geoff,” Michael whispers through his smile.

“I swear Michael,” Geoff says slowly, trying to come back to himself. “You called out for Jesus so much, I half expected him to show up.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read my disclaimer about safe sex [here!](http://horrificsmut.tumblr.com/post/101539282857/a-disclaimer-about-safe-sex)
> 
> :)


	18. Chapter 18

“You’re not going to freak out on me now, are you?” Michael asks, propped on his stomach in bed.

“Freak out on you as in…?” Geoff asks, stretching out and luxuriating on his back, his skin slowly cooling down, his senses returning to normal after a session in overdrive.

“As in pretending I don’t exist? As in never letting me be in a room with you alone?”

“Christ Michael,” Geoff says. “Not one for pillow talk, are you?”

“Well excuse me if I’m a gun shy after last time,” Michael says, looking a little hurt. He’s resting his chin on laced fingers looking impossibly innocent--except for the row of butterfly bandages over one eye and the deep bruising there. Light streams in through the window, catching his brown eyes and blazing them a color that’s almost red.

“You know where I live now,” Geoff says. “It’s not like I could hide from you if I wanted to.”

Michael smiles at that.

“Yeah but I’d have to make Ray drive me if I wanted to stalk you.”

“Admittedly I don’t know Ray as well as you do, but I’m guessing you’d be hard pressed to convince him,” Geoff says.

“No way, Ray’s my boy. If you suddenly start acting like an asshole to me, keep your eyes peeled for a dirt brown sedan,” Michael says, smiling. “Also I’m already thinking of ways to blackmail you with the entire cock piercing situation, just so you’re aware.”

“You’re absurd,” Geoff says, scooting back across the sheets, gathering Michael up. “Don’t be a dick. I won’t ignore you. Or freak out on you.”

“You’re sure?” Michael says.

“I promise to be my completely normal, neurotic asshole self,” Geoff says. Michael seems satisfied with that, finally, relaxing into Geoff’s arm, his chest.

“Does completely normal, neurotic asshole Geoff generally cook breakfast?” Michael asks.

“I bought bacon and eggs yesterday thinking that I might cook again this morning. But honestly--don’t you want to get out of this one room for a little while?”

“If you’re coming with me. Yeah.”

\---

Michael stays in bed while Geoff gets dressed. There’s something especially gratifying in watching the man stand--immodest now--to pull on his dark boxer briefs, to gather up the clothes that they had discarded. Geoff folds each item, making a neat stack of Michael’s clothes and his own clothes on the foot of the mattress before stepping into the hallway to retrieve jeans, a shirt, socks, and a jacket from the hallway closet near the bathroom. He pulls on the jeans and socks before stepping into the bathroom bare-chested to brush his teeth and comb his hair.

Reluctantly Michael gets out of bed, pawing through his backpack to find the last clean set of clothes he packed. He retrieves his boxers from the foot of the bed, puts the thick thermal shirt on with a fresh pair of jeans.

After a moment, it’s his turn in the bathroom, passing Geoff in the tight hallway where he sneaks a kiss onto the other man’s neck before Geoff can squirm away. In the mirror now, Michael runs his hands through his hair. It’s a mess after the morning--wiry and wild, sticking out in odd angles. He gives up on it almost immediately and leans into the mirror to examine his bruise.

No, his parents won’t like that one bit.

He’s been chewing over a few different stories in his mind. Obviously he won’t tell them that he got it in a fight. Maybe he’d be able to convince them that he’d gotten the shiner and cut from roughhousing with Ray. He could say he’d been drinking and that small admission of guilt, that one unlikely confession, would throw them off the scent. They’d be too distracted yelling at him about the dangers of alcohol to actually consider the validity of the whole scenario. Plus, they’d be likely to assume that with the cut and black eye, he’d already learned A Valuable Lesson about drinking.

Yeah, Michael thinks. That’ll work.

\---

They leave the apartment and Geoff locks up. Although they haven’t discussed what the next stop will be, Michael has quietly packed all of his belongings into his backpack which he slings over his shoulder.

“Need me to put up my hoodie this time?” Michael says, cracking himself up as they turn to go.

“Shut the fuck up,” Geoff says, quietly. “You don’t have to be incognito but I’d prefer if you didn’t make a big scene about it.”

Michael obeys, following Geoff down the creaking stairs and out into the apartment parking lot. It’s still early. It occurs to Michael that he hasn’t been outside since Friday night--but that he doesn’t mind it. That he’d trade being cooped up for the privilege of sharing the weekend with Geoff any time the option was offered.

The Sunday morning is clear and impossibly cold as they both pile into Geoff’s hatchback. It’s the first time Michael has seen his car in the daytime. It’s an import--old and a little musty but nicely cared for. Geoff cranks the heat, pushes a tape into the tape deck.

“Hope you don’t mind ‘Oi!,’” he says as the speakers begin to play back a tinny punk song.

“I don’t know shit about music,” Michael says, “so I’ll roll with anything.”

Michael is content to be a passenger--not asking, yet, where they’re going or when he’ll be forced to face the reality of going home. He can pretend, he thinks, for at least a little while longer--that this is their life, that it can be like this any weekend he wants.

\---

Geoff eases them onto the highway once again. The fact that Michael has brought his backpack doesn’t escape him and once again he finds himself smiling. Teenagers are slippery, insightful little creatures. Michael is hedging his bets--assuming that he’ll be dropped off somewhere. Granted, it’s a good assumption. Their sweet Sunday will run out eventually with the sheer inexorable march of time.

Or, Geoff thinks after a moment. Or.

Or Michael is a hustler to the core, and some element of the backpack is meant to make Geoff feel guilty, to make him find a way to ask Michael to stay another night.

No. Geoff squashes that thought after a moment, as tempting as it might be to read deeper into the situation. As tempting as it might be to find some excuse for one more night before reality.

Michael is bright but not conniving. Full of typical foolhardy lust, but not so unreasonable that he’d ever think Geoff would, what, drive him to school on Monday?

Slaughter and the Dogs strums brightly in the background as they roll down the highway, crumbling brick facades giving way to gentle green hills punctuated by phone lines strung long and high.

“ _Situation, situation, you just got me in a sticky situation._ ”

Geoff suppresses the urge to fast forward the tape and opts to talk over the song instead.

“You ever been out to Blue Gulch Dam?” he asks, tapping his fingertips on the steering wheel. Michael shakes his head.

“High schoolers don’t do a lot of scenic sightseeing, I guess,” Michael says, shrugging.

“Well,” Geoff says. “There’s a 24-hour diner near there I like at Kettle Falls. Amazing fucking French toast. And a decent cup of coffee which, might I add, is a rarity out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“How far a drive is it?” Michael asks.

“I dunno, 30, maybe 40 minutes if we roll down the windows and enjoy ourselves?”

“So this is a real place that you like and not just somewhere you’re taking me to get the hell out of Chewelah?”

Geoff sighs. He wasn’t expecting the conversation to steer into a minefield so quickly but apparently there’s no telling with Michael.

“It’s a place that I like _and_ I’m taking you there to get the hell out of Chewelah,” Geoff says after thinking for a moment. “Does that piss you off?”

“A little bit, I guess,” Michael admits.

“Michael,” Geoff says. “People recognize me in Chewelah. They recognize you. We can’t be idiots about this. There’s not a great alternative if we’re actually going to leave my apartment and get a bite to eat.”

\---

Michael knows that he’s visibly pouting just as much as he knows that Geoff is right.

“Reality is bullshit sometimes,” Michael says, looking out the passenger window as the countryside rolls by them. “And Chewelah is most definitely bullshit.”

“Amen to that,” Geoff says. And then there’s a hand on the back of Michael’s neck pushing him forward roughly, teasing him, ruffling his hair. He frowns over at Geoff who is concentrating on the road but smiling broadly.

“Hey, shit,” Michael says. “Watch the fucking merchandise, Jesus.”

“Don’t think of it as us getting away from Chewelah. Think of it as my way of making up for insinuating that we’d never go on a normal date and drink coffee and talk about Steinbeck,” Geoff says.

“Fine,” Michael says. “I can do that.”

\---

They roll up to a diner just off the highway with a neon sign--off for now--proclaiming “FRANKS 24 HR” but not specifying what, exactly, Frank claimed ownership of during those long hours every day. The diner looks like a forgotten set from an old movie from the outside, but it’s clean and there are plenty of cars in the parking lot.

When they walk in, the hostess recognizes Geoff immediately. The diner is bustling with activity, happy conversations bubbling and the cool sounds of cutlery on plates, of cheap spoons in coffee cups clinking, of people rubbing their hands together and shuffling ancient laminated menus.

“Hey sugar!” the hostess says brightly to Geoff. “Two this morning for a change?”

“Two this morning,” he says back to her, smiling.

It does put Michael’s heart at ease, a bit, to see that the staff clearly knows him--it’s not just some place Geoff looked up on his phone where they could get away from Chewelah. The hostess is all smiles as she seats them in a booth at a window, passing over two large menus.

“Two coffees?” she asks.

Geoff looks across the table to him.

“You want coffee? Juice? They make a hell of a cup of coffee here,” he says.

“Yeah,” Michael says, “Coffee is great--thanks.”

“OK honey,” the hostess says. “I’ll bring that over and Heather will be right with you.”

Geoff smiles at Michael.

“Heather likes me because we’re both from Alabama,” he beams. Michael realizes that Geoff’s proud to finally be in a place where people recognize him, like him.

“Oh she likes you?” Michael says. “Am I going to have to hit a girl? Because I’m not above hitting a girl.”

Geoff rolls his eyes and chuckles as the hostess comes back, depositing two thick-walled mugs of steaming black coffee. Cream and sugar are already on the table and Michael dumps both liberally into his cup. When he looks up, Geoff is smiling at him, drinking his coffee black.

“Fuck off, don’t judge me,” Michael says.

\---

Geoff is pleased to share the diner with Michael. He’d only been there a handful of times since he moved to Chewelah--maybe four? Five?--but more often than not it had been in the dead of night. After he found out they were open 24 hours, it seemed like that place had a gravitational pull on him. And on nights when he wasn’t neck-deep in bourbon and regrets, it was a good spot to read, to kill time when it was too dark to do much else. He’d stuck out like a sore thumb with his tattoos and the small staff had latched onto him with a warm curiosity that was something like friendship, quizzing him on his history, where he worked. They treated him like a regular even after just a few visits, not bothering him when twice he occupied a booth for hours, drinking coffee and reading during the early morning hours. And it didn’t hurt that the dam was just a few miles away, all soaring planes and blue skies. The perfect spot to watch the sunrise if you didn’t sleep the night before.

Geoff doesn’t bother explaining to Michael that Heather is no threat because it’s apparent the moment the waitress shows up. She’s more than twice Geoff’s age (which, Geoff quickly calculates, means she’s--what--FOUR TIMES Michael’s age?).

“Now here I thought we were your only friends, Geoffrey,” she says, gesturing to Michael on the opposite side of the booth. Geoff chuckles. “You want the usual thing, honey?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, holding his menu out to her and grabbing Michael’s. “He’ll have the same.”

The waitress is gone before Michael can protest.

“What the fuck,” Michael says.

“Just trust me on it,” Geoff says, winking. He takes a long pull from the coffee, rich and bitter.

“So, Michael,” he begins, “did it strike you in East of Eden that Steinbeck was too optimistic about humanity?”

“Jesus Christ Geoff,” Michael says, shaking his head. “We don’t literally have to talk about East of Eden.”

“Hm.” Geoff pauses for a minute. “Well, _can_ we? I’d never read it before this summer when I was getting ready for your class and to be honest I haven’t gotten to have a real conversation with anyone about it yet.”

“Uh, other than the fifty goddamn periods you and I spent talking about it in front of an entire class of people in September?”

“Right,” Geoff says. “Other than that.”

Michael mulls it over for a minute.

“You really don’t have to talk to me about books,” Michael says.

“Is that not something you’d enjoy?”

“No, I mean, it definitely is.”

“Then we’re settled dude. So please, back to it. Steinbeck: too optimistic or what?”

\---

Having a conversation about literature with Geoff outside of the classroom is an utterly different experience.

For one, Geoff finally disagrees with him--vehemently arguing against Michael’s assertion, in fact, that Steinbeck is a realist.

“What the fuck happened to ‘there’s no wrong answer?’” Michael protests.

“Ahh, fuck that,” Geoff says. “There’s no wrong answer in the classroom, maybe.”

“You said that to me yesterday! We weren’t in fucking class!”

“OK,” Geoff says in an exaggerated imitation of his classroom voice. “There’s no wrong answer in the classroom _or in Geoff’s bed_. But by the light of day, on neutral ground, you’re definitely wrong. Steinbeck is as optimistic as a Hallmark card and you know it.”

“Whatever dude,” Michael says. “If you believe the idea that man can triumph over evil is too optimistic then I don’t know what to do for you. That’s dark shit, man.”

“Ehhh, that’s not what I’m saying,” Geoff says, dismissing Michael with a wave of his hand. “I just think it gets a little sentimental at the end. The whole ‘timshel’ bit.”

“Jesus Geoff,” Michael says. “Rip out my heart. That was my favorite part.”

“Only because you think you’re Cal reincarnate,” Geoff says. Michael balks.

“There is not one teenager in that whole classroom who doesn’t think they’re Cal reincarnate,” Michael says after a moment. “So you can’t fault me for that.”

“Good point,” Geoff says, smiling.

Before they can go on, Heather the waitress is back, setting large platters of fragrant breakfast in front of them, placing a carafe of syrup down with ceremony, leaving and returning before either can say a word to refill their coffees and ask if they want extra butter.

On the plate in front of Michael is a huge slab of French toast along with a serving of something brown that’s been fried hard.

“OK, so explain to me what ‘the usual thing’ is, ‘ _honey_ ,’” Michael says, parodying Heather’s accent.

“Shitloads of French toast with a side of corned beef hash,” Geoff says around a mouth already full of breakfast.

\---

Michael digs in after a few doubtful bites and a question about what “hash” means exactly, in this context. Geoff is almost as pleased to watch Michael wolfing down the breakfast as he was to watch him eat Geoff’s own cooking.

They sit in a comfortable silence for a while, both working away at the large breakfast. But Geoff is quickly learning that Michael can never let something just be easy.

“So, what’s next for us?” Michael says, his mouth full of French toast.

“Well, I wanted to show you the dam. Then we could figure something out for the afternoon. And I figured Ray could pick you up somewhere? I mean, I could drop you off but I just thought it would mean less explaining if Ray’s the one who ultimately takes you home.”

“That’s uh,” Michael says, gulping. “Not what I meant.”

Geoff’s stomach drops and he sets down his fork. Did Michael _always_ have to do this when they were eating?

“I’m sorry,” Geoff says, giving Michael his full attention now. “What did you mean?”

“I mean… Well, do you have some advice for me on how I’m supposed to act in class?” Michael says. He’s being guarded and Geoff can’t tell if he’s angry, hurt, or just genuinely curious. He decides to tread lightly.

“You can decide that for yourself, Michael,” Geoff says. “I trust you.”

“Well that’s not fucking helpful at all,” Michael says, beginning to pout, stuffing his mouth with a large forkful of corned beef hash. Geoff sighs.

“OK. Let me help. You should sit in your same desk. You should still call me Mr. Ramsey. You should still be pissed off every day when your classmates force you to carry most of the discussion,” Geoff says, ticking down the list. “And then in second period, you should go to Burnie’s class and, I don’t know, do whatever weird shit he has you guys do for a grade.”

“But I mean. When can I see you? I’m not trying to be weird or romantic--just, like, literally,” Michael says. He’s struggling to get the question out.

“Ugh, this is so weird,” Geoff says. “I’m sorry.”

“No I’m sorry,” Michael says, pouting harder. Geoff knows he’s wrecking it.

“I mean, I’m guessing you’d be safe to text me,” Geoff says, trying to salvage the conversation. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to see much more of each other at school than we already do.”

“So Gav and I can’t come by during our free period?”

“That’s fine,” Geoff says. “But I don’t think you should tell him. About this weekend.”

“Yeah?” Michael says, a hot look flashing across his face. “What happened to me deciding for myself?”

“You’re right, you’re right--” Geoff says. It’s easy to forget how fast Michael’s temper flares. “Look, I won’t tell you what to do. Be rational. I know you won’t go mouthing off to people, but think about who you tell and how far you spread this around. For both of our sakes.”

Michael nods at that, chewing his bottom lip.

“I know,” he says. “Sorry. You’re right. It’s weird. The reality of this situation is bullshit.”

“It’s not so bad,” Geoff says, smiling, kicking him gently under the table.

Michael laughs at that.

“It’s terrible, Geoff!” he says, smiling. “It’s a fucking disaster, don’t lie to me.”

“Fine, it’s a wreck,” Geoff says. “But you won’t be my student forever.”

Michael’s face goes slack at that and the look he gives Geoff is halfway between surprise and adoration. The enormity of what he’s just said only then hits Geoff: the promise of a future, the indication that not only will he allow Michael into his life but that he could actually see their contact spiraling out in time, out towards April when Michael would graduate and no longer be off limits.

Geoff’s face goes hot as he breaks eyes contact and burns his mouth on a too-large gulp of coffee. The fresh coffee sears down, burning his throat, his stomach, as he pretends to be intensely interested in something out the window.

\---

Michael isn’t really one for the majesty of mother nature, but he does have to admit that Blue Gulch Dam is glorious.

They stand on a sloping hill looking out at a soaring view over a sparkling blue river, a heavily wooded plane in the distance with a black peak cutting the horizon. Wind blows harder here with nothing in between them and the brutal, cold force.

It doesn’t make up for how their conversation at the diner had crashed and burned, how Geoff had simply shut down in the middle of conversation and gone absent. The raw beauty of the setting can’t make up for the fact that Geoff now seems to shy away from even casual contact.

He hates Geoff, in that moment. Or at least, the hates the way the man just goes away sometimes, his eyes going dark and distant. Like they’re not even on the same planet.

“Who even goes to a dam?” Michael says, kicking a rock down the slope, watching it fall. “Why would you even think to come here?”

“Seemed like a good place to watch the sunrise one morning,” Geoff says, shrugging. “A lot of stupid shit sounds intelligent at 4 a.m.”

“Must be nice to have a car and a bunch of free time on your hands,” Michael says with vinegar in his voice.

He immediately regrets the dig, though, thinking of Geoff’s cold, empty apartment full of boxes and not much else.

“Sometimes it is,” Geoff says, not looking at Michael.

“It’s pretty,” Michael says, not sure what else to say about the spot. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

\---

When they get back to the car, Michael begins tapping out a text to someone.

“Geoff, do you know how to get to the Walmart in Colville?” he asks, not looking up from the phone.

“Sure. If it’s open 24 hours a day, chances are I’ve been there,” Geoff admits. “Why--you need me to take you?”

“Yeah,” he says, still not looking up. “Ray says he’ll meet us there in twenty minutes.”

The statement stings a little.

Geoff hadn’t been planning on dropping Michael off until later, had been thinking of what they could do together as the day ripened to afternoon.

But he’s not going to protest--not going to beg Michael to text Ray not to come quite yet, not going to insist that they steal a few more hours together before going back to reality in sharp relief.

“Roger that,” Geoff says, flat, buckling his seatbelt.

Colville is just about ten minutes from Kettle Falls. Geoff doesn’t want to be silent but he doesn’t know what to say to Michael. The abrupt change feels like a slap. He would’ve sat at the dam with Michael all day, content to do nothing but hold fucking hands at the falls like a sappy middle schooler. He doesn’t know how to feel about Michael’s choice to go--and worse, doesn’t know how to feel about how sad he feels at the thought of Michael going already.

Geoff tries not to think about his apartment, sitting empty. Tries not to think about Monday morning as they pull into the sprawling, ugly Walmart parking lot.

“Did I, uh, do something wrong, Michael?” Geoff says, pulling them into a parking space as far away from the shopping center as possible. “I really didn’t mean to piss you off.”

“It’s fine,” Michael says. “You didn’t do anything.”

But he doesn’t offer up any more explanation, looking down at his phone. Two tense minutes tick off before a brown sedan pulls up five or six parking spots away from them--and then Michael is all movement and energy, unbuckling his seat belt, kneeling in the seat and putting his face close to Geoff’s.

“Geoff, thank you for this weekend,” he says. “Thank you for saving me on Friday--and for everything else, ok?”

Geoff knits his eyebrows together. It feels like Michael is saying a more significant goodbye than he should be. They’ll only be apart for the rest of the day and the boy is acting like he’s going off to war.

“Michael, of course it’s---”

But he’s cut off because Michael is kissing him, predictably, but it’s almost fevered, a kiss of life-and-death urgency, Michael grabbing the front of Geoff’s shirt and kissing him deep, taking the lead for once and laying a stroke of his tongue into Geoff’s mouth before pulling back with a shallow sigh.

“Bye, Geoff,” he says, already at the door, spilling out of the car.

“Michael!” Geoff protests. Michael is standing outside the car, stooping now, pausing at Geoff’s tone.

“Yeah?” he says, peering in at Geoff, his face an open question.

Geoff’s mind is a catalogue of praise and promises: Michael, you’re incredible, Michael, I think you changed my life this weekend, Michael, I wish you wouldn’t go. And yet. And always yet.

“I’ll see you Monday,” Geoff says finally, lame and hating himself.

“Yeah,” Michael says. “See you in class.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made [a mix for this story over at 8 tracks](http://8tracks.com/mightbeanasshole/the-break). If you like the story, maybe you'll enjoy the mix!
> 
> And, for even more fun, someone who is REMARKABLY NOT ME [also made a mix for this story](http://8tracks.com/reveur/in-a-rhyme-i-wrote-you-down). You should listen to it because it's heartbreaking.


	19. Chapter 19

“Thanks for picking me up, man,” Michael says, swinging his backpack over the middle console and into the back seat of Ray’s car, not looking back at Geoff as he buckles his seatbelt and Ray puts the car into drive.

“Yeah of course,” Ray says.

Ray lets them sit in silence for a few minutes as they pull out onto the highway--and Michael is silently thankful for the few minutes of neutral calm--but curiosity gets the best of him.

“So. You got a little banged up,” Ray says.

Michael gives a dry chuckle, one hand fluttering up to trace the shape of the bandages on his forehead.

“Little bit, yeah,” Michael says. “Looks pretty bad, huh?”

“No, I mean,” Ray looks at Michael from the corner of his eye. “You’re kind of making it work for you. The whole damsel in distress thing, you know?”

Michael gives him a death stare and Ray laughs at his own joke so hard that Michael can’t help but to crack up too.

“Fuck you dude,” Michael says. “Seriously, go fuck yourself.”

The conversation flows back and forth between them easily, then, and they talk about anything but the weekend at their backs as they roll down quiet streets. Ray asks if Michael is hungry--Michael says no, still stuffed from breakfast--and Ray asks if Michael will stop with him for a burger anyway. Of course Michael doesn’t care. They park and Michael grabs a booth in the small fast food joint while Ray orders. It only takes a few minutes for Ray to join him at the booth, tray laden with junk food.

“So,” Ray says, unwrapping a burger. “Remind me what you and I were doing this weekend and where the hell we were? We both need to get our alibis straight.”

“I doubt my parents would say anything to you about it, Ray,” Michael says, skeptically.

“Yeah, about that,” Ray says with his mouth full. “I might need an alibi for last night too. I kind of piggybacked onto yours on Saturday.”

Michael’s interest is piqued now.

“Oh _really_ ,” he says, cocking an eyebrow. “Where were you that you needed an alibi?”

“Well definitely not at home,” Ray says, not making eye contact now, taking a large bite of his burger.

“A girl Ray?” Michael asks, smiling wide.

Ray frowns at him, mouth full.

“A boy, then?”

Ray crunches his face up, weighing it over in his mind, swallowing the bite.

“Technically, but I don’t think he gets ‘boy’ a lot anymore at his age,” Ray says, finally.

“Oh my God Ray,” Michael says, laughing easily, relieved that he’s not alone for once. “Do I know him?”

“Well you know _of_ him I guess,” Ray says.

“So you’re not going to tell me,” Michael says.

Ray rolls his eyes, sighing deeply.

“It’s not an important thing,” he says. “It was just a night--it happens.”

“You’re a dick,” Michael says. “Jesus, Ray. You are _such_ a dick. Good luck getting any details out of me about Ramsey, then.”

“So there are _details_ then,” Ray says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Say no more.”

“That’s not fair,” Michael protests. “Fuck.”

\---

They get their stories straight before Ray drops him off at home. They visited a state college campus, made some friends, asked around about programs and admissions. On Saturday, Michael got drunk and his face got busted while he was roughhousing with Ray. An unremarkable weekend for two unremarkable, reckless teenagers.

\---

Geoff only makes it a few miles away from the Walmart before he decides to turn around. He’s not a fan of the sprawling store chain, but he impulsively decides to do some actual grocery shopping, resolving that he’ll cook and eat a real dinner tonight--even if it’s by himself.

Two hours later, Geoff is playing a complicated game of Tetris, attempting to fit everything he’s purchased into his hatchback. He’s ended up with groceries, of course--a nice steak, some sweet potatoes, and about $100 worth of other food like ripe strawberries, garlic, spices--but he’s also purchased an armchair, packages of picture frames, a rug, pillows--even a curtain.

With a few minutes of struggle and a handful of bungie cords, Geoff has crammed all of his purchases into the car and he begins making his way back to Chewelah.

\---

Neither man sleeps well that night. Sunday night is dreamless and long, stretching bleak towards sunrise.

\---

Monday is gray and cold, raining lightly with snow already predicted for the next week. Geoff rises early, tired of staring at the ceiling, and begins the novel task of cooking himself a breakfast more complicated than black coffee.

And despite the weather, despite the way he left things on Sunday, he feels strangely optimistic about the day ahead, sitting in his new armchair like an adult, eating a bowl of eggs and avocado and sriracha--not sleepwalking through the door to work but actually waking up, cooking, eating.

\---

Michael has lost count of the hours he has spent preoccupied with anxiety since he left Geoff’s car on Sunday. He’s gone through all sorts of scenarios and permutations, trying to steel himself for any eventuality but paying special attention to the sort of future where his teacher goes cold and distant.

Ray is gentle on the car ride in, careful to talk about anything but Ramsey. Michael appreciates it.

He’s grim in homeroom, and of course everyone has a question about his face. It’s impossible to miss, his pale skin highlighting the bruise which was ripening to an ugly purple.

“My boy!” Gavin exclaims before Michael even has a chance to sit down. “You’re hurt! What’s happened to you?”

Ray is there in an instant, stepping in front of Michael and almost shielding him bodily.

“I did it this weekend,” Ray says. “We were fucking around and it, uh, got out of hand. Guess Michael won’t be trying out for any college wrestling teams since he bruises like a peach. I, on the other hand, am considering a career in UFC fighting.” Ray waits for the laugh and then wIthout missing a beat, he’s immediately off to another topic before Kerry and Gavin have time to ask any more questions--deflecting them with questions about a test later in the week.

Ray may be a fucking punk, Michael thinks, but he’s so thankful for his friend’s adept handling of the situation that he could almost cry.

\---

The three of them walk into Ramsey’s classroom as they have done every weekday morning for the past two months. A handful of students are already there, Barbara and Lindsay huddling with Jordan and Caleb conspiratorily over a notebook.

Geoff is conspicuously absent, though, and Michael feels deja vu from the first day of class. Students file in until the classroom is full and the bell for the start of the period rings. Anxiety hardens in Michael’s chest. Ray gives him a sympathetic look and a shrug. There’s nothing to say.

Minutes tick by and the class grows louder, discussing at what point they should leave to go find somebody or just skip the period. But finally there’s movement at the door--and there’s Geoff, coming ass-first into the room dragging a large multimedia cart from the library.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, loud but not looking at the class. He’s got a heavy jacket and his hair is matted from the rain, his leather bag spotted with raindrops. “You don’t realize how goddamn far away the library is until you drag a TV from there in the rain.”

Caleb is up to his feet immediately, helping Geoff wheel the awkward cart into the classroom.

“Can someone good at technology help get this thing set up?” Geoff says, stripping off his wet jacket and placing his bag on the floor. “Also does anyone have a towel?” he asks, his voice cracking.

It earns him a few laughs from Michael’s classmates. The tone in the class has shifted--everyone loves a movie instead of lecturing--and Gavin and Lindsay are up immediately, kneeling in front of the DVD player, plugging things in while Geoff unpacks his bag.

Michael watches him, not even worried about being obvious anymore. It’s almost reassuring to see him back in his teaching clothes after the weekend--but it’s also impossible for Michael to ignore the new knowledge he has of Ramsey’s body under the broadcloth shirt, the dark slacks. It’s also impossible to ignore the fact that despite being drenched and looking chilled, Ramsey seems to be in a great mood, happily unpacking his bag and taking an appreciative first sip from his thermos as he supervises Gavin and Lindsay. He moves back to his desk, producing a DVD case, and, abruptly, he looks up at Michael, catching his student’s assessing glare.

Michael’s heart beats hard in that split second of insecurity. But then--remarkably--the moment of contact between them goes warm and steady, Geoff’s sleepy eyes holding Michael’s gaze without discomfort. And then the man smiles broadly, winks at him, and turns back to the other students.

Michael breathes an inadvertent sigh, keeping his face neutral. Ray clears his throat, and when Michael sneaks a look at his friend, Ray is attempting to bite down a smile and staring straight ahead.

“OK boss,” Lindsay says, holding out two remotes towards Ramsey. “Here’s your TV controller and your DVD controller.”

Geoff thanks the students and they take their seats. Geoff rubs his hands together and faces the class.

“Not that you’ve earned this moment of benevolence, but we’re going to watch a movie this week,” he says, still smiling. “2004’s ‘The Merchant of Venice,” and at that, Geoff holds up the DVD box. An appreciative murmur makes its way through the class, not so much about the choice of movie but simply because it’s a movie instead of a lecture.

“This is a super faithful adaptation, so you’ll have to pay attention to catch what’s going on. On Friday, we’ll discuss the play in class, and then you’ll be responsible for a three-page reaction paper due on Monday. Fair enough?”

Michael’s classmates are nodding, whispering to each other.

“Alllright,” Geoff says, clipped. “Let’s get to it.”

He starts the movie and hits the lights before pulling his chair around to the other side of his desk so that he can face the TV.

Michael is relieved on every level--the wink, the fact that he won’t be expected to talk all period, the fact that they won’t have homework so he can focus on catching up on the two days of work he missed last week. It feels like a gift, and he’d thank Geoff if he could.

\---

Ten minutes before the period is over, Geoff stops the movie at the end of a scene.

“OK, we need to call it a day if we’re going to stretch this out over four periods. Does anyone have any questions about what’s happening so far?”

No one does.

“If I let you out early, can you promise to be quiet in the halls so the other teachers don’t yell at me?”

The class nods.

“Fabulous. Get outta my sight,” he says with a smile.

The other students are quiet as they pack up and file out of the room. Most of them are already in the hallway by the time Michael, Ray, and Gavin are making their way to the door.

“Hey Jones,” Geoff says at their back. Michael turns, his heart beating hard immediately. Would Geoff actually keep him after class? He hadn’t dreamed of getting the man alone today. When he faces Geoff, the man is holding out a plastic Walmart shopping bag.

“You left this at your desk,” he says. “Don’t make me throw out your trash for you.”

Michael frowns at Geoff. He hadn’t left the bag there. Geoff presses the bag into his hands and it occurs to Michael not to ask questions.

“Sorry Mr. Ramsey,” Michael says, accepting the plastic bag, tucking it into the bag on his shoulder quickly before catching up to Ray and Gavin, just outside the door.

Ray splits off wordlessly to head across campus, and Gavin begins making his way to second period.

“I’ll catch up with you, Gavin,” Michael says, veering off towards a bathroom. The bathroom is empty, silent, and he closes himself into a stall before hooking his bag on the back of the door and pulling out the plastic bag Ramsey handed him.

Inside of the bag, there’s a lunch. Actually, more than a lunch. Almost a picnic. Michael unwraps a sandwich first and inspects it: crusty bread, roast beef, slices of tart green apple, and a pungent, hard cheese. There’s a small mason jar filled with creamy coffee--still warm, a small bag of almonds, four large, ripe strawberries in a disposable hard plastic container, and a small bar of dark chocolate wrapped in tinfoil.

Michael starts to laugh, relief bubbling up from the bottom of his stomach as he unwraps each small offering. And finally, at the bottom of the bag, an index card, a one-word note penned in a familiar scrawl:

> _Friday?_

\---

That evening, Geoff is busy reworking leftovers from his Sunday night meal when his phone buzzes on the counter. He stops slicing peppers, wiping his hands on a dish cloth, and inspects the phone.

He doesn’t recognize the number, but when he unlocks his phone and peers at the message, it’s clearly from Michael--the first message he’s received from the number. After their conversation on Sunday, Michael had demanded Geoff’s number, promising that he was always discreet with his phone but still setting up a pin-locked password at Geoff’s insistence.

Geoff is glad, now, that he overcame his initial fears at giving Michael his cell number, and he smiles at the message glowing up at him: “You're the biggest asshole I’ve ever met and you have the emotional maturity of a toddler. Thank you for lunch.”

Geoff types out a reply: “Wish I could argue with you re: that first part. I’m sorry about Sunday.”

>>Michael: Then make it up to me on Friday.

>>Geoff: Right. Get a ride over at 6.

There’s a pause before Michael replies.

>>Michael: And arrange a ride back that night? Or when?

Geoff thinks about that for a minute.

>>Geoff: I know you’ve got homework to do this weekend and you failing is the last thing I need on my conscience.

>>Geoff: So either bring your books or prepare to get out of my hair Saturday morning.

>>Michael: You got it.

\---

At the same time, Michael is texting back and forth to Ray.

>>Michael: So... what can I offer you in exchange for playing chauffeur again this weekend?

>>Ray: Depends on where you need a ride to and when.

>>Michael: Ramsey’s on Friday at 6.

>>Ray: And then back home when?

>>Michael: TBD.

>>Ray: That’s fine. I need you to be an alibi again.

Michael smiles at that. So much for it not being an important thing--whatever “it” entailed.

>>Michael: You got another “just a one night thing” lined up?

>>Ray: Fuck you, why don’t you see if Kerry can take you to and from your little trysts then

>>Michael: Goddamn, jk dude

>>Ray: Yeah yeah

>>Michael: Not another word about it. I’ll do the alibi thing if you’ll do the driving.

>>Ray: Aight, it’s a deal.

\---

The week passes impossibly fast for Michael, as if through sheer force of will he’s sped up time to put him closer to Friday.

It helped, of course, that classes have kept him busy. Missing Thursday and Friday the previous week had put him behind--and while in the past it may have been difficult for him to care much about catching up, he spends Tuesday and Wednesday working away diligently, happy to have something to pass the time.

His week is punctuated by Ramsey’s class, by tests and quizzes, flashcards and project deadlines, lectures he can barely keep up with and dinners with his family.

Thursday is a different story, the hours after school stretching out impossibly long, Michael’s mind buzzing away with manic energy. He’d promised himself that he would work ahead and do as much of the weekend’s homework as possible--but it just isn’t panning out. Every thought strays to the previous weekend--vacillating wildly between the sensory overload of being in bed with Geoff and the strange, cold hours they’d shared the day afterwards.

Eventually Michael has worked himself into a futile mixture of anxiety and arousal, staring helplessly at the European history text lying open on his desk in a pool of light. Michael shuts the book angrily before stalking to the bathroom in the quiet house, starting a hot shower.

The gash on his forehead has closed up nicely, the skin around it pale and cool. He knows he has Geoff to thank for the fact that it didn’t get infected, and that he won’t be left with much of a scar. His black eye is fading, too--just a yellow and green ghost of a bruise.

He steps into the steaming shower, thankful immediately for some sensory relief as the water pounds loud and soothing. After a moment, he steadies himself with one hand and begins to stroke himself with the other. In his mind, Geoff is fucking him in the back of his car, the two of them almost fully clothed, Geoff still in his clothes from class, Michael bent low in the back seat with Geoff’s tattooed hands digging into his hips, pressing the material of his uniform hard into his skin. Michael imagines the man babbling out his name as he bucks into Michael, imagines Geoff’s weight heavy across his back, the two of them pressed claustrophobic and close in the back of the hatchback, sweating in their clothes.

Michael muffles himself, steadies himself, as he comes into his own hand, only barely keeping his balance.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

It’s finally Friday, and for once the class is willing to talk.

The conversation is flowing easily, and Michael is thoroughly enjoying the fact that he doesn’t have to bear the brunt of the discussion on his own shoulders.

Instead, his mind is wandering as his classmates talk about the movie they’ve watched all week. Geoff is perched at the edge of his desk, sipping hot coffee as the class talks. The temperature in Washington has been dropping steadily since Monday, and even though Geoff spends the majority of the day in his classroom, he’s begun to dress warmer. Seeing the man in different clothes--jackets and sweaters--combined with his new knowledge of Geoff’s body has begun to drive Michael to distraction. It just _does_ things to Michael.

Today, his teacher is in his normal uniform of a pressed broadcloth shirt and neat, dark slacks, but he’s added a tailored gray blazer over the top of everything. The dark tattoos on his fingers and the backs of his hands are fascinating and incongruous with the jacket, and gives Geoff the look of someone headed to an editorial fashion shoot rather than a high school English class.

If Geoff shows up in a scarf, Michael isn’t sure his heart will be able to take it.

Lindsay shakes Michael out of his reverie with an offhand comment:

“Am I the only one who was distracted by the fact that Antonio was hella gay?”

“Jesus Christ, Lindsay,” Michael says, throwing a look at her over his shoulder.

“What?” Lindsay says. “‘And when the tale is told, bid her be judge/ Whether Bassanio had not once a love.’ I mean, dude. Please.”

“Did you specifically write that quote down so we could talk about how gay they are, Lindsay?” Gavin says, laughing.

“Maybe,” Lindsay says. “I mean are we just going to ignore it? Jeremy Irons is _so gay_ for Joseph Fiennes in this movie!” She’s looking at Geoff pleading, throwing her hands in the air, and he can’t help but smile. “They kiss!”

“No, it’s a valid point,” Geoff says. “It’s more than subtext. After all: the whole play really hinges on the plot point that Antonio is willing to die for Bassanio by giving up the pound of flesh that Shylock demands.”

“It’s kind of sad how that entire character’s arc goes,” Michael says, immediately regretting doing anything that’s going to force him to talk.

“Explain,” Geoff says, predictably.

“Well in his first scene, he talks about how melancholy he feels--and clearly he’s in love,” Michael says.

“My point exactly,” Lindsay chimes in, and Michael nods.

“He’s got the whole unrequited thing for Bassanio--who basically just takes advantage of him because he needs money to be able to marry his girlfriend,” Michael says. “And Antonio is happy to do it. Which is just sort of… tragic, right?”

“Sure,” Geoff says. “If you’re going with the assumption that Antonio is in love with Bassanio, it’s kind of a sadistic plot point that Antonio is willing to _die_ so that Bassanio can marry someone else.”

“I mean, I know it’s a comedy, but that last scene is _dark_ for Antonio,” Michael continues. “He’s been through the entire courtroom drama, he hasn’t known if he’s going to live or die, and even though it turns out OK, he’s still left with melancholy and loneliness in the end.”

“Do you see a parallel between Antonio’s love for Bassanio and Shylock’s love for his daughter, Jessica?” Geoff asks. He seems genuinely curious, not lecturing now.

“I guess you could go there,” Michael says, “but in the end it’s different. Shylock is hurt by the fact that Jessica runs away because she’s betrayed him and their family. He stands in the way of her doing what she wants. But Antonio is like… completely on board with Bassanio getting married to someone else. Even though it essentially ruins his own happiness, he’s totally fine with it as long as Bassanio is happy.”

“Jesus that’s depressing, Jones,” Geoff says.

“Sorry, uh,” Michael says. “Wasn’t trying to bring the mood down.”

“OK but,” Ray interrupts, “can we talk about Al Pacino in this movie?”

And the moment has passed, the class now taking sides on the debate of whether or not Pacino overacted as Shylock.

Yet there’s still something dark in Geoff’s face as he rests on the edge of his desk, arms crossed now and mind apparently elsewhere.

\---

When the bell rings at the end of the class, Geoff barks out a reminder that their three-page reaction paper will be due Monday and his students file out quickly, thinking already of their next class.

Normally Michael tries to get out of the class as soon as possible, not to linger or draw attention. But he’s already counting down the hours until he can be alone with Geoff tonight and the knowledge that they’ll be together has almost been too much for Michael to deal with. It’s making him reckless.

He waits as the classroom empties. Gavin looks to him from the doorway, but Michael waves him away, shaking his head, indicating that he should go on ahead without Michael. Gavin shrugs and exits the classroom.

And for a moment, they’re alone, the door closing behind the last student, no one from the next class arriving yet.

“Can I help you, Jones?” Geoff says, sitting in front of his desk with his arms crossed. His legs are thrown out in front of him, crossed casually at the ankles. His voice is formal and gruff but his eyes are bright with a question.

Michael stands with his school bag slung over his shoulder and walks casually towards Geoff.

“It’s just that it’s 9:15,” Michael says, when he gets close, dropping his voice to just above a whisper and maintaining a steady eye contact with Geoff. “Do you know what that means?”

“No,” Geoff says, warily. “I assume you’re going to tell me though, smartass.”

“It means that in nine hours, it will be 6:15,” Michael says, stepping closer, knowing that he’s pushing his luck now as Geoff frowns deeply but doesn’t lean away. “And at 6:15, you and I both know that I’m going to be in your apartment,” Michael says, dropping his voice even lower. “And maybe, if I get my way, you’ll be fucking my brains out with that big, pierced cock, _Mr. Ramsey_.” The noise Geoff makes is something strangled and outraged--and before his teacher can react any more, Michael drags one hand across the crotch of Geoff’s pants as he turns to walk towards the closed classroom door.

“God _damn_ it Jones!” Geoff says at Michael’s back, sounding truly angry.

“Gonna give me detention?” Michael says without turning around, pushing out of the classroom. He doesn’t dare turn to see the expression on Geoff’s face, as much as he’d love to memorize it.

\---

The day goes by painfully slow for both of them.   
Geoff considers, briefly, going to lunch at the canteen with Burnie and Gus, if only to shoot daggers at Michael from across the room--but he decides not to.

Michael considers, briefly, going to Ramsey’s classroom during his free period, if only to see Geoff’s reaction at his audacity to show his face after the morning’s stunt--but he decides not to.

It’s difficult for both men to think of much else, though they’d never admit it to anyone.

\---

Ray pulls up shortly after 5:30 that evening. Michael’s bag is packed and there’s no one to say goodbye to as he steps out the door and into the cold. It’s clear and still and impossibly frigid, prickling any exposed skin as Michael makes his way from the door to Ray’s car. He slings his bag into the back seat and sees that Ray has a bag packed as well.

“So, where you headed after you drop me off?” Michael asks casually, trying to trick Ray once more into divulging his plans for the weekend.

“As far as my parents are concerned, I’m staying with you this weekend,” Ray says, not looking at Michael.

“Hm. And as far as I’m concerned?”

“As far as you’re concerned, you shouldn’t be concerned,” Ray says, smiling.

“I can’t decide if you’re engaged in a covert espionage operation or if you’ve gotten a boyfriend,” Michael says, rolling his eyes.

“Definitely don’t have a boyfriend,” Ray says. “So it’s safe to assume I’m a spy.”

Despite being locked up like a vice, Ray seems to be in a good mood. And it actually looks like he’s brushed his hair.

\---

Ray drops him at the door to Ramsey’s apartment building, not making Michael walk far in the cold.

“Thanks again, man,” Michael says before getting out.

“Just text me when you need a ride again,” Ray says. “I won’t be too far away.”

Michael trots to the building, pushing open the heavy door, immediately thankful that it’s warmer inside. He can’t stop smiling as he makes his way up the creaking stairs to apartment 206. He arrives at Geoff’s door and knocks. There’s movement inside, and then he hears the sound of the deadbolt unlocking. But the door doesn’t open. Michael stands there for a moment, waiting and listening.

Finally he opens the door himself, stepping in cautiously.

“Geoff?” he begins. A pair of hands grab him by either side of his unzipped jacket, and Geoff comes into view as he pulls Michael into the apartment, closing the door with his hip, never letting loose his grip. After maneuvering Michael inside, he pushes him hard against the wall--not enough to hurt Michael, but more than enough to surprise him.

“OK, you’ve got my attention,” Michael says. Geoff isn’t smiling.

“The fuck did you think you were doing today,” Geoff says through his teeth.

“Just fucking around,” Michael says, his voice going high. “Nobody saw.”

“No,” Geoff says. “Nobody saw that time.”

Geoff has his entire body pushed against Michael’s, squeezing him slightly against the door frame, reminding Michael how much taller, stronger the man is.

“I won’t make a habit of it,” Michael says, trying to sound calm, mature.

“You’re damned right you won’t,” Geoff says, pressing him harder, hands still in fists against Michael’s chest. Michael presses back, pushing his hips into Geoff’s legs.

“You gonna teach me a lesson?” Michael says through a smile. Geoff doesn’t reciprocate, his face still a hard frown.

“How’d you guess,” he says, unclenching one hand, snaking it down to Michael’s groin. He unbuttons Michael’s jeans easily with one hand, reaching into his pants, his hand sliding rough past the elastic of his boxers.

“Jesus, Geoff,” Michael says, wanting to buck into the touch but finding himself pinned against the door.

“I find you to be an extremely rude and abrasive student sometimes,” Geoff says, spitting the words at Michael and punctuating them with confident strokes down Michael’s hardening cock.

“Fuck,” Michael chokes. The pressure, the contact--it takes almost nothing to get him hard now.

“And it’s generally in poor taste,” Geoff says, leaning close in Michael’s face, stroking him, talking through his teeth again, “to leave your teacher with a boner.”

Michael is almost whining in spite of himself and Geoff’s face is close, his breath hot, his mouth on a trajectory to meet Michael’s. Michael abandons any hope of keeping his dignity as he pants openly, ready to receive a kiss.

And with that, Geoff pulls off, slipping his hand out of Michael’s jeans, stepping back, spinning, and walking into the apartment.

Michael is speechless.

“ _Seriously_ , Geoff?” he keens after a moment, sliding down the doorframe and collapsing dramatically to the floor. Geoff flashes him a grin after a moment. “Goddamn it,” Michael says, buttoning his jeans and rubbing his erection sadly through layers of fabric. “Your lessons fucking suck.”

“Your judgment in my classroom fucking sucks,” Geoff shoots back, making his way to an armchair.

“Whoa, holy shit,” Michael says, noticing that the apartment looks different for the first time. “You decorated, Geoff?”

Michael ignores his boner for the moment, pushing himself to his feet and stepping further into the apartment. In addition to the new armchair, dark and modern, Geoff has added a large woven rug, more pillows--even added a curtain to his window.

“I’m impressed,” Michael says, looking around. “God, you even hung shit on the walls.” There’s a cluster of picture frames on one of the walls and Michael peers at their contents. Record covers, postcards, photos of groups of smiling young people. “Holy shit, is this you without tattoos? You’re so tiny!”

Geoff chuckles.

“And dorky!”

“Hey, words hurt, dude,” Geoff says.

\---

Michael spins to face him then.

“When did you do all this?” His student is smiling broadly at him.

“I got started on Sunday,” Geoff says. “Didn’t have anything better to do, I guess.”

“It actually looks like someone lives here now,” Michael says.

“I guess that’s positive,” Geoff says. “I think I’m adjusting to the fact that maybe I don’t hate living in this town as much as I thought I did.”

Michael puffs up his chest at that, smiling brighter.

“You mean that?”

Geoff nods. Michael crosses the room to join him, sitting lightly on one arm of his chair for a moment before leaning down, wanting to kiss Geoff but obviously treading lightly. Geoff closes the distance between them, meeting him in a gentle, short kiss.

“Sorry about this morning,” Michael says. “You can’t pretend that you didn’t know I’m an asshole, though.”  
“Fair enough,” Geoff says. He pulls out his phone, clicking the screen on and glancing at the time. “OK, we need to head out if we’re going to make this movie.”

“What, movie, Geoff, what,” Michael says, smiling. “We’re actually leaving the apartment together?”

“Yeah, of course,” Geoff says, cocking his head at Michael. “I’m not just going to keep you cooped up in my apartment like a housecat, Michael. DId you really think that?”

Michael shrugs, his eyes on the floor.

“God, you’re cute when you think nobody likes you,” Geoff says. Michael looks at him then, a smile on his face.

“Terrible looking when you’re in a good mood, though.”

“Fuck you,” Michael says through a grin. “I always look great and you know it. Where are we going? What are we seeing?”

“‘Instant Vengeance’ in Spokane,” Geoff says, pulling on a jacket.

“The new Van Damme movie?”

“Hell yeah, man,” Geoff says. “Looks terrible.”

Michael laughs. “It really does.”

“Thought we’d get dinner after,” Geoff says. “There’s this place called Pascale’s that’s great around the corner from the theater.”

“Sure, yeah,” Michael says. “Anything sounds great.”

\---

They’re only in the car for a minute before Michael realizes he’s forgotten something.

“Hey, fuck, can I get your keys? I need to grab something before we go.”

Geoff hands over the keys and watches Michael as he sprints back to the building.

It’s nice to see Michael without a gigantic bruise on his face, out of danger, not in his classroom. Happy and smiling like a teenager should be, bubbling with energy.

Michael is back down in just a minute, something small in his hands, and he throws himself into the passenger seat before passing a plastic rectangle over to Geoff.

“I made you this,” Michael says, “almost forgot.”

“Michael,” Geoff says. “ _Michael_.”   
  
“What?”

“You made me a goddamn mixtape?”

“What?” Michael says, looking hurt. “Is that not cool? What did I do?”

“I don’t think I’ve had someone make me a mixtape since… fuck, since before you were even born.”

Michael smiles.

“Well, I’m breaking your dry spell.”

“Who even has a tape deck anymore, other than in their car?”  
  
“My parents, apparently,” Michael says.

“I cannot goddamn believe you made me a goddamn mixtape,” Geoff says, laughing. “That’s adorable--you’re adorable.”

“Fuck you dude,” Michael says. “You don’t have to listen to it if you don’t want to.”

“I bet you have terrible taste,” Geoff says.   
  
“I bet it’s better than whatever old man shit you listen to,” Michael shoots back.

Geoff takes the tape out of its case and presses it into his car’s tape deck. Michael has hand-written the track list in the case liner. He doesn’t bother reading it yet. It could be the worst mixtape in the history of bad mix tapes and he already knows that he’ll love it.

\---

The road from Chewelah to Spokane feels like it takes no time at all, and Michael happily keeps their conversation flowing as they ride down the dark highway. He tells Geoff about his classes, about his family, interrupting stories here and there to explain why he had included a certain song on the tape. Geoff almost never has anyone in his car with him and he’s perfectly content to let Michael’s monologue wash over him as he drives.

As they get deeper into the track listing, Geoff has to admit that he’s a little impressed by the tape, too. It’s not necessarily what he’d choose to listen to on his own, but Michael’s taste in music apparently reaches from present day back all the way to the 60s.

“Is this The Zombies?” Geoff asks, interrupting Michael. “Shit, I love this song.”

“Yeah, me too,” Michael says. They sit in silence for a minute, listening to the quiet song--”The Way I Feel Inside.”

“Don’t, uh,” Michael says, self conscious after a minute. “Don’t read too deeply into these song choices.”

 _“Should I try to hide the way I feel inside my heart for you?”_ the voice croons through Geoff’s tinny speakers. _“Would you say that you would try to love me too?”_

“Yeah right,” Geoff says. “You tell a goddamn English teacher not to read into something. Good luck with that.”

Though Geoff can’t see it in the dark, he’d wager all the cash he has on him that Michael is blushing deeply in the passenger seat next to him.

\---

The theater is crowded and the other people are boisterous, laughing and cheering along with the action movie.

Half an hour in, Michael starts whispering wisecracks to Geoff, who chuckles deeply.

At sixty minutes, Geoff jumps at the feeling of Michael’s hand meeting his in the dark. The man laces his fingers into Geoff’s, and Geoff can’t help but smile at the decidedly teenage show of affection.

How long had it been since someone had held his hand in a dark movie theater? Geoff cannot remember.

\---

Michael talks him out of Pascale’s after the movie.

“This is way too fancy, dude,” he says as they stand in front of the dimly lit cafe.

“Hey, we can do fancy if we want to,” Geoff says.

“I mean, I get it but,” and Michael shrugs. “I saw a pizza place on the way here that looked good. That’s more my speed”

Shit, Geoff thinks. Pizza _does_ sound good.

They retrace their steps in the cold night air, Michael leading them to a brightly-lit hole in the wall. The restaurant is warm and it smells like garlic and dough, a teenager younger than Michael greeting them brightly and pointing them towards the counter to order. They get greasy slices, gigantic and served on paper plates, before taking a seat at a booth in the front of the restaurant.

“This is the date-iest date I’ve ever been on,” Michael says in between slices.

“Me too actually,” Geoff says. “I usually just buy people drinks and hope for the best.”

Michael laughs and thinks about that for a moment.

“So did that make me the best case scenario or the worst?”

Geoff mulls it over.

“A little bit of column A, a little bit of column B,” he says.

“We could always go back to The Rooster and have a do-over, you know,” Michael says. “I could fix that horrible stroke of yours.”

Geoff frowns.

“Whatever, I’m great at pool,” he says. “And maybe on a day where we didn’t start out at school. I’m bushed.”

“God you really _are_ old,” Michael says, rolling his eyes.

“I warned you, dude.”

“I mean... could you just blow me in the bathroom for old time’s sake?”

\---

Despite his cracks about Geoff being tired, Michael starts to fall asleep on the ride home almost instantly. Geoff turns the music down and starts prodding him with questions, not wanting to spend the ride home alone.

“So, tell me if you want me to fuck off with this but… what are you going to do for college?”

Michael groans.

“I’m trying not to think about it,” he says.

“Next year is going to come whether you want it to or not,” Geoff says.

Michael snorts softly.

“I know,” he says. “I know I’m being dumb about it. My parents want me to look, our college counselors at school want me to make a decision. It just scares the hell out of me to think about, I guess.”

“Understandable,” Geoff says. “Well, do you know what you want to study?”

“No idea,” Michael says.

“What about English?” Geoff says, grinning.

“God, I knew this is where this conversation was heading.”

“Whatever,” Geoff says. “English is great. And with me you’d have a built-in advantage.”

\---

Michael waits for Geoff to go stony and silent at the probably accidental implication that they have a future together.

He doesn’t.

“I mean, not that I’d write your essays for you or anything,” Geoff continues. “But it’s helpful to have someone to talk through ideas with.”

“You just want to live vicariously through me because you miss college life,” Michael says.

“Yeah, maybe a little,” Geoff says. “And it probably goes without saying that I think you should go to my alma mater.”

“I guess it’s a good endorsement that you liked it enough to stay and teach,” Michael says, shrugging. “I don’t really have a preference yet. It all seems equally terrible.”

“It’s not that bad,” Geoff says. “You’d have to get a car, but it’s cheaper than going out of state. And Chewelah isn’t too far away from the campus. Just a few hours.”

“God, you’ve really been thinking about this, haven’t you.”

“You’re my student, Michael. I have a vested interest in seeing you go out into the world and succeed,” he says. “Just maybe not, y’know. Not too far from Chewelah yet.”

Michael smiles.

“I keep waiting for you to do that thing where you say something and freak yourself out and stop talking,” Michael says.

“Oh don’t worry,” Geoff says, his voice cracking. “Internally I’m freaking the fuck out at what I’m actually letting myself say out loud to you right now.”

Michael laughs.

“But on the surface it’s smooooth sailing,” Geoff says.

\---

Back at the apartment, Michael presses himself into Geoff, kissing him before the man can even turn on a light.

Geoff doesn’t bother putting up a fight. He’s been thinking of Michael--his lips, his mouth, his body--since he’d teased Geoff in class that morning, barely able to think of much else but getting him alone, barely able to muster up the self control to tease Michael in turn when the man showed up to his apartment.

They stand in the dark together, Michael’s hands around Geoff’s waist as he kisses up into the taller man’s mouth, Geoff humming happily, his hands tracing Michael’s shoulders, his back. He reaches down to palm Michael’s ass through his jeans and if the feeling weren’t enough to make Geoff hard, Michael’s moan at the touch does the trick.

Michael guides them backwards towards the mattress.

“If you won’t blow me in the bathroom,” Michael says, low, “the least you can do is fuck me in your apartment.”

Geoff sighs as Michael pulls off Geoff’s jacket, his sweater, his shirt, before kissing his neck, down his chest. Geoff kicks the shoes off of his feet and Michael’s hands find his buttons, his zipper.

“I can’t decide if you’re the worst tease or the best,” Geoff says as Michael continues to pull his clothes off insistently.

“It’s not teasing if you deliver,” Michael says.

And as good as Michael had been in the morning light, he’s amazing in the dark of the apartment too--Geoff’s entire sensory experience reduced to noise and touch as Michael sits on the edge of the mattress and begins to mouth Geoff’s cock. Geoff can barely stay up on his feet, the sensation too good, and Michael is more confident this time--slowly teasing up and down Geoff’s length, stroking his thighs, his balls, his hips.

“That’s fucking incredible, Michael,” he says, just attempting to keep it together, to stay on his feet.

Michael gets tired of his rocking on his feet after a moment, and he guides Geoff’s hands to steady himself on Michael shoulders. Michael laps the underside of Geoff’s dick, fondling the piercing gingerly with his tongue. The ring moving inside of him, the pressure, combined with the stimulation from the sensitive skin on the outside is the sweetest, most unexplainable feeling and Geoff moans into the air, bucking into Michael’s mouth.

Michael gags, not ready to go deeper, and the sound makes Geoff’s cock twitch in spite of himself.

\---

Michael’s first reaction is to feel self conscious about the ugly gagging noise, but Geoff’s reaction is nothing short of wonderful.

Michael resumes his rhythm for a moment and then, methodical, decides to make himself gag again--just to see if Geoff reacts the same way. Maybe it was a fluke.

He presses his mouth deep over Geoff’s cock--it’s not hard to go deep enough for him to gag. He does, louder than before, his body spasming uncontrollably at the stimulation.

Geoff’s dick throbs again and he moans low in the air above Michael, the sound raw and inadvertent.

It’s definitely not a fucking fluke.

He lets his hands resume the rhythm on Geoff’s cock while he catches his breath, listening to Geoff breathe raggedly in the dark. It’s like Michael’s stumbled on a super power he didn’t know he had, and as soon as his breathing recovers, he does it a third time, choking hard on Geoff’s cock and letting the spasm wrack through his body--and as his body jerks, he hits his teeth hard on Geoff’s piercing. Geoff’s hands tighten on his shoulders as he rocks uncontrollably into the feeling.

\---

“Jesus Michael, slow down,” he whispers.

He feels Michael wrap a hand around his dick again, his breathing rushed.

“But you like it,” Michael says, and Geoff can tell even in the dark that he’s smiling.

“Yeah, but who’s going to pay your dental fees when you knock out your damn teeth,” Geoff says, breathing hard. Michael chuckles, letting his forehead press against Geoff’s hip.

“Next time I’ll take the jewelry out and you can gag all you want,” Geoff says. “Jesus, Michael.” Michael’s hand works confidently on Geoff’s cock and Geoff really doesn’t trust himself on his feet anymore. Slowly Geoff bends at the knees and Michael lets go, scooting back on the bed. Geoff finds him in the darkness, warm under his clothes. He pushes Michael back onto the mattress, raking up the layers of shirts and sweaters on his torso and pressing hot kisses from his belly upwards. He palms Michael’s erection through his jeans, Michael eager to meet the touch.

“Get those off,” Geoff says, low and rough, sending Michael immediately to pull off his shoes, socks, his pants. Geoff finishes the work of getting Michael naked, pulling his shirts over his head brusquely, pressing his body over Michael’s in the cold air. Michael gasps as Geoff’s hand finds his naked erection and he moves under Geoff’s body, lithe and pliant.

“Turn over,” Geoff whispers, sitting back on his knees. The mattress moves as Michael spins, planting himself face down. Geoff strokes Michael’s back, kissing his shoulders, the back of his neck, his hands moving down to caress Michael’s hips, and he supports himself as he reaches around and strokes Michael, grinding his own erection into the side of Michael’s ass. Michael groans at the contact, pushing backwards into Geoff.

After a moment, Geoff sits back onto his knees again, kissing Michael low on the back, kissing his ass and stroking the backs of his thighs. Michael hums softly in the darkness. Geoff spits silently into his hand, slicking his fingers and stroking Michael’s opening gently. Michael presses back into the contact and Geoff, keeping his hand where it is, returns to loom over Michael, kissing his ear, his neck, enjoying feeling Michael moving underneath him as he strokes and teases.

“God Geoff,” Michael says, his voice breathy. “You have no idea how much of the week I spent thinking about this.”

“Mm,” Geoff groans in response. “I might have some idea. Probably almost as much time as I spent thinking about being in you again.”

Michael moans hard at the statement, his voice almost cracking and his body going taut with tension. Geoff reaches over Michael’s shoulder, feeling behind the mattress for a second before producing the small bottle of lube.

He slicks a thick finger, kissing Michael’s back again before moving down, pressing the finger into him.

Michael’s obscenities start right on cue: “Jesus fucking Christ, yes.”

Geoff strokes Michael’s flank, enjoying listening to Michael begin to fall apart. It’s only a moment before he’s pressing back onto Geoff, moaning through a smile. All of Michael’s sounds seem amplified in the dark room, and Geoff enjoys the moment, just the feeling of Michael, the sounds of him.

\---

“Please fuck me Geoff,” Michael says, when pushing back onto Geoff’s finger isn’t enough anymore.

“Slow down, Michael,” Geoff says from the mattress behind him. “We got nothin’ but time.” The man’s voice is almost dopey with arousal, but Michael is tired of teasing and being teased.

“I waited a damn week,” Michael says. “This is inhumane.”

Geoff chuckles deeply behind him, gently withdrawing, and Michael gasps at the absence. Geoff shifts on the mattress, pulling Michael’s hips backwards and grinding his erection into the fleshy part of his ass.

“Jesus, come _on_ ,” Michael moans, knowing that he’s not above begging. At that, Geoff is pushing back in, two fingers this time, and as good as it feels Michael is ready to get on with it.

“This isn’t fair,” Michael says, pushing backwards, trying to press the pace forward--and Geoff begins to meet the pace, fucking him back with his hand.

“Fuck fair,” Geoff says. “I’m not going to _hurt_ you Michael.”

“Goddamn it, I’m not fragile,” he says, moaning, challenging the pace. Geoff is breathing hard behind him, and after a moment he gives in and Michael feels him gently withdraw again. Michael feels the weight behind him shift on the mattress, and finally Geoff is there, pushing into him--and Michael lets out a deep sigh. Geoff lowers himself forward across Michael’s back, breathing deeply too as he pushes slowly, sinking himself to the hilt, one hand steadying himself on the bed, the other grasping at Michael’s hip.

“Better?” he asks, sounding equal parts pleased and annoyed.

“Much,” Michael sighs.

Geoff doesn’t waste much time, beginning to rock into Michael. Pleasure surges through Michael and he moans inadvertently into the air, almost quivering at the feeling, his cock, his ass, a network buzzing with pleasure. How many times before this night had he wondered what it would feel like with Geoff laying across his back, buried inside of him? Reality is even better, he realizes, than his imagination--and he drinks in the nuances of sensation: his hands curling into the soft comforter, Geoff’s breath warm in the cold air, the feeling of his facial hair against Michael’s back and his firm grip on Michael’s hip.

\---

Time spirals away from Geoff and he curses Michael silently for making him rush. If Michael weren’t such a whiner, he’d take his time, systematically drawing out every moment, every sensation they create together--rather than careening towards orgasm together. But the boy begging was just too damned much--and it had been a _long_ week--and as he rolls his hips into Michael he has to admit to himself deep down that it doesn’t matter _how_ he gets it because it’s all much better than he’d ever dared to dream of.

He uses both hands to pull Michael up off the bed then, easing Michael’s body back onto his as he steadies them both and grinds into his ass. Geoff holds Michael firmly, then, with one hand on his hip and the other finding its way to stroke Michael’s erection. Michael’s frustration with the position is audible: Geoff has him pinned and exposed with no way for him to rock back onto Geoff. So he takes his time now, grinding slowly and enjoying the sounds Michael makes as Geoff strokes his cock.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna lose my fucking mind, Geoff,” he pants. “Please. Please fuck me.”

“Yeah?” Geoff says, knowing it’s a lame response but enjoying the begging spilling out of Michael.

“Please, fuck, please fuck me Geoff,” Michael says softly. “I can’t take it. Goddamn it. I can’t--please fuck me.”

Geoff moans, releasing Michael, pressing him into the bed now, placing his hands on Michael’s hips and fucking into him with a steady rhythm.

“Oh god,” Michael moans, “thank God.”

Geoff feels him shift forward and realizes that Michael’s propped on just one arm now, his other hand pumping his own cock.

“Harder Geoff, please,” he begs.

He only has to say the words, and Geoff relinquishes a bit more of his control, thrusting harder, hands digging into Michael’s hips.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Geoff says, panic always at the edge of his mind.

“Fuck Geoff,” Michael says. “It’s perfect.”

Their bodies work together, crashing into a brutal rhythm until both of them are just breathing hard in the dark, the backs of Geoff’s knees sweating even in the cold apartment, their sounds no longer coherent but still pleading, still somehow communicating: yes, it’s good, it’s wonderful, god it’s the best.

“I’m gonna come,” Michael says, the first words he’s strung together in minutes. “Can I come, Geoff?”

The question almost doesn’t lodge in Geoff’s brain but Michael is insistent, desperate.

“Can I, Geoff?”

Geoff’s brain catches up after a moment.

“Jesus Michael, yeah,” he says, trying to return to coherence. “Come for me.”

And Michael’s breathing hitches almost immediately, his body following suit, juttering and spasming under Geoff, _around_ Geoff, as he knits together curses and praise and every iteration of Geoff’s name he can come up with.

Geoff is close behind--how could he avoid it? Michael’s pleas, his body, his _asking permission_ is all too sweet and the burning gathering in the base of Geoff’s consciousness spreads in a sweet warmth from his groin outwards, his mind going blissfully blank as he comes into Michael, not sure if he’s forming words, but knowing only that he’s consumed with Michael, _his_ Michael maybe--Geoff’s chest going tight at the feeling of affection laid naked in the moment, even after such resistance, even after all this time. Michael, his Michael, Michael. It scares him much less in that moment than it had before.

He collapses forward, catching his weight with his hands, and together they slump, Geoff pulling out gently. They shuffle to strip the soiled blanket off the bed before they both lay on their sides, breathless.

Geoff runs a hand along Michael’s hip and Michael jerks under the touch.

“Christ, that tickles,” Michael says. “My nerves are going haywire.”

The euphoric waves of orgasm are retreating as Geoff realizes he’s found a new way to torture Michael--and he immediately reaches back up to stroke Michael’s hip again.

“Ah, Jesus,” Michael says, jerking away and flipping over to face Geoff in the dark. “Don’t tickle me, asshole.”

Geoff laughs harder than he should, scooting forward, stroking Michael’s other hip.

“Fuuuck,” Michael says, pushing backwards. “I swear to Christ, Geoff.” He’s intercepting Geoff now, not letting him touch. “I will go get dressed right fucking now you asshole.”

“Alright, alright, alright, Jesus, c’mere,” Geoff says, reaching out to pull Michael towards him.

“I don’t trust you for shit,” Michael says. “I’m fine over here.”

\---

“Fine,” Geoff says. Michael feels the other man’s hand find his in the dark--a safe distance away from his body--and Geoff strokes Michael’s palm with his thumb.

“Thanks for going out with me tonight,” Geoff says after a moment. “For putting up with me in general.”

“Yeah right,” Michael says. “Like you could keep me away.”

Geoff gets up after a minute, walking naked to the hallway and flipping on a light. He pulls down a heavy blanket, flicks the light off, and then he’s back at the mattress, fluttering the blanket out and over Michael and the empty side of the bed. He disappears again, rattling around in the bathroom. After a moment, he’s back, weight shifting on the mattress. He presses a washcloth, warm and damp, into one of Michael’s hands.

“Jesus Geoff, I can get up,” Michael laughs. “I don’t need a damn sponge bath.”

Geoff chuckles in the dark and slides into bed. Michael gets up, pulling on his discarded boxers and a shirt and padding to the bathroom.

When he returns, Geoff is already breathing heavy, in a deep sleep. Michael presses himself into the sleeping man. Geoff hums softly, breaking slightly into consciousness enough to drape a hand over Michael’s hip before falling into dreams again.

\---

There’s a blissful lull in consciousness, in reality. Geoff dreams inane, boring dreams--forgetting them immediately, nothing more than a gentle background noise in his sleeping mind.  

\---

Geoff wakes to the sound of a page turning and he has a disoriented moment of panic, unable to remember in that first split second of panic where he is and who he might find in bed with him. But in the dim light, he sees Michael, propped against pillows with a large textbook across his knees.

“Hm,” Geoff grunts.

Michael looks over at him, sleepy but beaming.  
  
“Morning,” he says.

“Hm,” Geoff says.

“Yeah,” Michael says, turning back to his book.

Michael reads, silently, while Geoff gathers his thoughts.

“I feel fucking weird,” Geoff says after a few minutes.

“Yeah?” Michael says, turning to him again. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not hungover and it’s a Saturday, for one,” Geoff says, flipping to lie on his stomach. “And I feel like I actually… _rested_.”

“Congratulations, you’re a human,” Michael says. “You have achieved restful sleep.”   
  
“Is this what life is always like when you don’t have insomnia?”

“Probably.”

“God, it’s beautiful,” Geoff says. “What are you reading?”

“European History,” Michael says.

“Why?”

“Because you were weirdly insistent that I do my homework,” Michael says, rolling his eyes. “Unless you’ve forgotten. Plus I wanted to let you sleep in, but I couldn’t sleep anymore.”

“Wow, you seriously brought your books over?”

“Is that OK?” Michael asks, his eyebrows knit together in concern. “Sorry, I can just do it at home. I thought maybe if I brought my school stuff it would give me an excuse to chill here longer.”

“Jesus, Michael,” Geoff says, chuckling. “We’ll make you into a star pupil, yet.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

Geoff pushes himself out of bed, realizing that he’s thoroughly naked and thoroughly cold. He pads to the hall closet, standing and dressing right there in wooly socks, sweatpants, a sweater. He’s not used to the apartment being so dim in the morning, still not adjusted to having a curtain to help mitigate some of the light that streams in. He crosses the apartment to pull back the curtain and peer out into Saturday.

It’s still early, the morning light young and gentle, and everything is covered with a fine layer of snow.

“Holy shit,” Geoff says. “So much for snow on Tuesday.”

“No way,” Michael says, joining him at the window. “Fuuuucking Washington,” Michael says, looking out at the powdered landscape.

“Oh come on, you can’t be mad at that,” Geoff says. “It’s gorgeous. What kind of asshole are you?”

“A cold kind of asshole,” Michael says bitterly.

“Even with coffee and a hot breakfast and nobody forcing you to go outside at all today if you don’t want to?”

“No. I still hate it.”

“God, I guess I was really mislead in terms of how romantic snow is supposed to be,” Geoff says. “You think it’s going to be all fuzzy sweaters and hot cocoa and instead I get seething hatred.”

Even as Geoff leaves his side to start the coffee, Michael remains at the window, arms crossed and frowning out at the snow.

Once the coffee is ground and the water heating on the stove, Geoff returns, taking the blanket off the bed.

“I guess it’s _kind_ of pretty,” Michael mumbles, hearing Geoff approach. “In a terrible, freezing way.”

Geoff smiles and wraps the blanket around Michael’s shoulders.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

>>Mom: You’re not staying there one more night. We need to talk TODAY.

Michael feels like he’s falling down an elevator shaft as he stares at the text message from his mother. He stands there frozen, peering down at the screen.

“What’s up?” Geoff asks from the kitchen, obviously noticing the change in Michael’s body language.

“I’m… actually not sure,” Michael says, crossing to the kitchen. Geoff is scrambling eggs. “Look at this text from my mom.” He passes the phone over to Geoff who sets a spatula down into a spoon rest on the counter. Geoff presses his mouth into a line as he reads the words and then looks wide-eyed back to Michael.

“You don’t think she...” Geoff lets it hang there.

“About us?” Michael says. Geoff nods. “No, I mean. How could she?”

“Jesus Christ,” Geoff says, taking a step back. “This could be a disaster. You gotta call her now.”

“ _Call_ her?”

“Yeah,” Geoff says, rolling his eyes. “You know that thing where you actually speak into your phone?”

“Why don’t I just text her back?”

“Because she’s probably just going to send you something vague again!” Geoff says, obviously getting frustrated. “I’d kind of like to know if we’re _both_ in deep shit right now or just you.”

Michael sighs, defeated. He hates talking on the phone but Geoff’s right: if he texts her back, she’ll probably just continue to be ambiguous.

\---

There’s no way she could know, Geoff thinks to himself, watching Michael return to the other side of the room. They’d been careful. He repeats it like a mantra: _There’s no way, there’s no way, there’s no way._

Still, his mind spins like a gyroscope. This is the line of thinking he’d been trying to avoid since day one. This is the eventuality that he’d refused to spend a moment considering. _She knows, everyone knows, and it all ends today._ His job--his career probably--his time with Michael. His fucking sanity.

_There’s no way, there’s no way, there’s no way._

Geoff forces himself to draw a deep, quiet breath.

If this was going to happen, Michael would need him to keep his cool. He owed it to Michael to be mature, to act as if the world weren’t ending.

Michael has the phone up to his ear now.

“Hey ma,” he says gently, turning to the window. “I got your text message. What’s up?”

Geoff’s heart is beating hard--it feels like it’s up in his throat--but he forces himself to stay in the kitchen, to tend the eggs, to ignore his desire to loom over Michael and listen.

“Ma… _Mom_!” he says after a pause. “They’re just midterm grades! They don’t even count for anything!... Yeah, ok… Well, it’s got nothing to do with him… Right… _Right_ , I got it,” he says, petulance creeping into his voice. “Yeah, I’ll have him bring me home as soon as we finish breakfast, ok?... Yeah, great,” he says, sarcasting. “Yep that’s wonderful. Thanks, ma. Love you too.”

Michael spins on his heel and tosses the phone onto the mattress.

“So?” Geoff asks.

“Yeah it has nothing to do with you so feel free to breathe now,” Michael says, frowning.

“What’s the problem then?”

“I guess my midterm grades came in the mail yesterday and she just opened them,” Michael said.

“They send your midterm grades to your parents?” Geoff asks.

“Yeah go figure,” Michael says. “Private school.”

“Wait, but,” Geoff says, his mind finally working after the moment of panic. “So why is she mad?”

\---

Michael watches Geoff’s face go stony as he puts 2 and 2 together. Still, he waits for Michael to say it.

“Apparently I’m not doing _amazingly well_ this semester,” Michael admits.

“Oh really,” Geoff says, flat. “What’s the damage?”

“Well, an A in Burnie’s class--and in your class, obviously.”

“And?”

“Jesus, you’re worse than my mom,” Michael says. Geoff’s arms are crossed now and he’s frowning. “C’s in Spanish and Marine Biology, D’s in European History and Discrete Math.”

“Christ Michael,” Geoff says. “That’s a piss poor spread.”

“They don’t even count for anything!” Michael protests.

“Yeah, I heard,” Geoff says, his arms still crossed. “Do you think you have time to pull them up?”

“Yeah of course,” Michael says. “I obviously haven’t had the best semester, dude. There’s a lot going on--with us, with everything--”

“Hm. Lots of distractions,” Geoff says, nodding. Michael immediately regrets saying anything. This conversation is slipping away from his control.

“It’s not going to be a problem, Geoff,” he says, knowing he’s starting to plead. “What was I doing when you woke up, huh? Fuckin’ studying. There’s still time to fix this.”

Geoff sighs, his eyes softening a little.

“This semester is going to be important, Michael,” he says. “It’s the first thing college admissions are going to see. D’s aren’t going to make the cut.”

“You can spare me the riot act,” Michael says. “I’m sure I’m going to get that talk from my mom the minute I get home--and I’m grounded until December anyway.”

\---

Geoff feels a selfish pang of regret at that. December is two weekends away.

“Not that it matters much--we’re going to New Jersey for Thanksgiving anyway,” Michael says, rubbing his arm, turning in on himself. “Wouldn’t have been able to see you that weekend either way.”

“It’ll be good for you, Michael,” Geoff says gently. “Like you said--all of this has been a giant distraction.”

Michael looks like he’s on the edge of tears.

“You’re not a fucking distraction-- _you_ said that, not me,” Michael protests.

“Well that’s surprising,” Geoff says. “Because you’re an enormous goddamn distraction to me.”

Geoff had meant to inject some levity into the situation but Michael just looks more disheartened.

“We’ll both still be here in December, Michael,” he says, putting a hand on either side of the boy’s shoulders. “Hey,” he says, prompting Michael to look up again, to meet his eyes. “I promise I’m not going anywhere. Life goes on. But you have to fix this.”

“Yeah? And what if once I’m out of your hair you realize you’re better off without me?”

The naked emotion on Michael’s face is almost too much.

“Michael Jones,” Geoff says slowly. “Two weekends without you is not going to change my mind.”

Michael hugs him then, tucks his head into Geoff’s chest. The chaste, childish hug is not exactly what he’d come to expect from Michael and it catches him off guard like a punch that knocks the wind out of you. Geoff hugs him back, not sure what he ought to do to comfort the other man.

“This fucking blows,” Michael says into Geoff’s chest.

“It does,” Geoff says, rubbing his back, raking a hand through Michael’s hair.

\---

Getting the class on track that week is like trying to herd cats.

They’d all gotten lazy, it seems, after being treated to a movie the previous week. Then there was the added excitement of snow on the ground, of the Thanksgiving holiday right around the corner.

They’re reading The Importance of Being Earnest this week, and honestly Geoff had expected Michael to have a field day with that one. A thinly-veiled allegory for living a closeted homosexual double life? Michael should be on point with his commentary there. It had been on the lesson plan all along, but in terms of getting a rise out of Michael, there probably wasn’t a work of literature more perfect.

But Michael refuses to carry the conversation for the first time that semester.

When eyes turn to him for an answer in class that week, Michael just shrugs. He looks exhausted, honestly--deep hollows under his eyes.

On Tuesday, he comes in with a severe haircut which makes him look younger, thinner, and even more tired. Geoff texts him about it after school.

>>Geoff: New haircut looks good man

>>Michael: Lol right

>>Geoff: ???

>>Michael: My mom insisted on it before we go to NJ

>>Geoff: You hanging in there?

>>Michael: Yeah. Tests all week before break.

>>Geoff: OK, I’ll leave you to it. Take care of yourself

It’s hard not to text him more often, to at least check in on him. But the isolation, Geoff reminds himself, is important. He’s told Michael he needs to concentrate on his studies, so he needs to keep up his end of the bargain and stay out of the student’s way.

That won’t stop him, of course, from packing a few lunches here and there.

\---

Michael truly is exhausted.

Not just sleepy, not just passively tired.

He’s got that vivid, active kind of hollow exhaustion--where you feel like if you exhale too hard your chest will just collapse inward. That kind of exhaustion where you’re too tired to sleep and your bed feels foreign and smothering. Where the most appealing place to be is face-down on the floor. Or _would be,_ if you didn’t have so much damn work to do.

Every moment he’s awake, Michael is studying.

And it’s not that he has ever been a terrible student--that’s not the case. Michael has just been happy to slide by and be chewed out by his parents when he gets the occasional C or D. But seeing Geoff be disappointed in him? That’s a special kind of torture he’s not willing to go through again.

Monday had been a whirlwind, and Michael stayed after every class to meet with his teachers. He’s not a moron--he knows how to pull his grades up--but he’s not taking any chances.

So he buries his ego and delivers the same humbling speech to each teacher as his classmates file out of each period: I understand my grade has slipped in this class. I’m not asking for special treatment. But is there anything you think I can do at this point to bring my grade up before the end of the semester?”

Mr. Sorola had laughed at him, told him to spend less time goofing off in Spanish and he’d be fine--insisting that midterm grades don’t count for anything anyway.

Mr. Ellis, always too nice for his own good, had offered Michael a boatload of extra credit work.

Farmahini gave him a link to online modules to help him get ready for the Marine Bio final.

Castillo had been less helpful. Not exactly mean, but Michael obviously wasn’t one of his favorites.

“Your grade reflects your effort in the class, Michael,” he’d said. “Put in more effort and I expect your grade will reflect that.”

That afternoon, Kerry, the in-house overachiever, shows Michael how to make a spreadsheet in Excel calculating what he needs to make on each assignment to bring his grades up. For once, Michael doesn't make any snide remarks about Kerry’s academic achievements. And to his credit, Kerry seems pleased that Michael has asked for his help.

That evening, after an excruciating haircut mandated by his mother, Michael starts his work in earnest, giving highest priority to his worst classes. For history, he outlines two centuries using notes he borrowed from Lindsay and Caleb, cobbling them together with information from the book.

He does the entire packet of extra credit math work that night too, finally falling into bed at 2 a.m.

He’s like a zombie next day, barely recognizes himself with the stupid haircut, but staying up was worth it to be able to follow the conversation in history. Farmahini notices him participating for once, and he even earns a smile from the teacher.

Ellis frowns at Michael when he holds out the completed packet, telling Michael he could use some sleep but offering a second packet.

“Don’t bring this one back until after Thanksgiving,” Ellis says.

Tuesday is another late night. Michael starts with the Marine Bio unit online, moves on to outline the next century for himself for European history, and finishes with the math packet. He doesn’t make it past 1:30 that night, his eyes glassy as he pulls himself into the cold double bed in the dim light.

\---

“Fiction and writing figure prominently into the sort of strange morality that Wilde creates,” Geoff says, lecturing lightly on Wednesday. “When characters create a fictional life for themselves, Wilde tends to treat those characters as being more moral than those who don’t admit to their fictions. Anybody got an example?”

“There’s Cecily’s diary,” Lindsay offers from the middle of the class. “She basically calls dibs in this big fake romance and Gwendolen actually respects it because she wrote it down somewhere.”

“Exactly,” Geoff says. “Good thought. Any others?”

Michael is honestly having a hard time staying awake this morning. His last Marine Bio test before the break is in third period, and Michael’s head is swimming with lists of kingdoms, phyla, orders, genera. He just needs to hold onto the information long enough to get through the test...

If he lets his eyes go slack, transparent shapes float through his line of vision and Michael imagines that they’re a parade of phosphorescent plankton

 _Diatoms,_ he quizzes himself in his head. _Phytoplankton. Unicellular. Domain: Eukaryota. Kingdom: Chromalveolata. Phylum: Heterokontophyta. Class:... fuck, what the fuck is the class?_

And somewhere in the distance, Geoff is laughing at something someone has said. It shocks Michael back to himself: that clear, hard laugh, that white smile spanning his face beneath the mustache. Something Lindsay has said must have set Geoff off. Michael sneaks a look at her over his shoulder and she’s beaming, Geoff at the front of the classroom continuing to laugh higher and higher, actually slapping his knee at the joke. Michael smiles in spite of himself at how ridiculous it is.

\---

When the bell rings, Michael goes through the motions, tossing his notebook into his bag and shuffling towards the door, mind still drilling through vocabulary for the test.

“Jones,” Geoff is saying somewhere behind him. “Have a second?”

Michael turns and Geoff is just a breath away, impossibly tall and close and realer than he seemed during the lecture. He looks warm and strong and awake--everything Michael isn’t. Michael realizes he’s staring.

“Yeah, sorry, what’s up?”

He follows Geoff to his desk. Geoff sits down and opens a drawer, begins to rifle through the desk. Michael feels flush and needy at the unexpected attention from his teacher. He’d planned on continuing to ignore Geoff’s existence until his tests were done with but it’s impossible now.

He suppresses a fleeting urge to climb into Geoff’s lap, to rest his head against his sweater-clad chest and sleep.

“You look like you haven’t slept since Friday night,” Geoff says quietly. “Don’t kill yourself over this, ok?”

“It’ll be worth it,” Michael says.

Geoff presses a plastic bag into his hands. There are still a few students filing out of the classroom, Michael notices, and he’s not sure if Geoff is getting sloppy or just doesn’t care today.

“Lunch?” Michael asks, holding up the bag.

“Hm,” Geoff nods. Michael’s teacher looks up at him, his mouth pressed in a line. “Will you promise me eight hours of sleep tonight?”

“Just trust me, Mr. Ramsey,” Michael says, frowning and putting the lunch carefully into his shoulder bag. “OK?”

“Roger that,” Geoff says.

\---

Michael doesn’t try to hide the lunch and openly sorts through it once he arrives at Burns’ second period class. Kerry and Gavin have agreed to cover for him while he crams for his Marine Bio final, so Michael has one corner of the studio to himself.

Inside the bag, he finds a large container of cold noodles and chicken that smells like peanuts when he cracks it open to examine the contents. There are two small citruses--clementines, Michael guesses. A thick brownie wrapped in plastic. And at the bottom of the bag, blessedly, he finds two large cans of cold Red Bull and a plain index card.

“Take a deep breath. Drink some water. Please sleep. --G”

Michael smiles, folding the card and putting it into his wallet.

\---

>>Michael: Fair warning: I’m skipping your class tomorrow. Two big tests.

Geoff frowns at the text message that buzzes to him on Wednesday night.

>>Geoff: You know I have to report your attendance

Michael’s response comes immediately.

>>Michael: Oh yeah i know, not telling you so you’ll cover for me. Didn’t want you to worry i was sick or whatever. Thanks for lunch btw.

>>Geoff: Of course. See you in class Friday, then.

\---

True to his warning, Michael isn’t in class on Thursday.

Geoff sees a text from the student when he checks his phone at lunch.

It’s just a picture, no message attached. It’s an image of what Geoff quickly realizes is Michael’s Marine Biology test from the previous day. Geoff sees the grade in neat handwriting on the top: 97%.

\---

By Friday, Michael has collected two more A test grades in his flagging classes and additional reassurance from Sorola that he doesn’t need to stress himself out about Spanish.

When Ray drops him off at home that afternoon, Michael goes straight to his room, kicks off his shoes, taps out a text message to Geoff with his test results, and climbs into bed.

He sleeps straight through to Saturday, wakes up with an almost-dead phone by his side and a text from Geoff from the previous day.

>>Geoff: Jesus Michael, nice work. I’m really proud of you.

He decides to tap a text back to Geoff, even though it’s still early.

>>Michael: I’m still grounded as far as my mom is concerned. You still mad or whatever?

Geoff’s apparently awake for once, texting back after a moment.

>>Geoff: Fuck no. You did a hell of a job. Not worried

On one level, Michael is relieved. But it feels hollow without being able to even see Geoff. He needs someone to tease him about overachieving, to run their fingers through his hair and tell him he was right all along, to reassure him that everything is fine.

Michael runs through a hundred scenarios where he sneaks out into the snow or makes an excuse to leave the house. But Geoff hasn’t suggested any clandestine meeting--would probably be mad, anyway, if Michael disobeys the grounding. He tries to make his peace with it.

>>Michael: Gonna be a long week without you

>>Geoff: Understatement of the year, Michael.

\---

For the remainder of the weekend, the two men fall into old habits.

Michael throws himself into video games.

Geoff throws himself into whiskey. And writing. In fact, he writes his first poem of the year.

It passes the time.

\---

They don’t talk that weekend. But Michael starts texting Geoff almost immediately when he and his family hit the road to New Jersey on Monday.

The first message comes before sunrise: Michael complaining about his mother’s insistence that they get to their gate two hours early, Michael complaining about “a handsy TSA guy,” Michael complaining about being dragged across the country to hang out with a bunch of “moron cousins” for a week.

The next message comes with a photo: it’s a selfie of frowning Michael squeezed between two people Geoff presumes are his brother and father. The men on either side of him are slumped towards him, sleeping already.

>>Michael: I have to turn my phone off. Pray for me.

Geoff smiles down at the messages as he fixes a late breakfast. He taps out a benign text of his own in response: 

>>Geoff: Text me when you’re safe on the ground.

It’s the afternoon by the time Michael texts him again.

This time the text comes with a short video. Geoff sees the inside of what appears to be a taxi. There’s loud music playing, an industrial looking background whizzing by the windows, and a cacophony of different people speaking--presumably the Joneses.

>>Michael: Kill me Geoff please take my life

\---

The texts continue into the evening. Michael doesn’t wait for a response from Geoff, apparently sending videos, photos, and texts as he sees fit.

And strangely, through the texts, Geoff finds himself piecing together details about Michael’s family.

Michael complains about everything from sharing a bed with his brother to his aunt and uncle’s “worthless fat pug.” He fixates on the number of throw pillows that his aunt owns--which seemingly cover most upholstered surfaces in the house--and texts Geoff about the various sizes and shapes he discovers. At final count, Michael finds no less than two dozen throw pillows in the house.

On Tuesday, he live-texts Geoff a play-by-play recap when his cousins and brother bully him into going outside, ostensibly for a game of tag football in someone’s back yard. Michael climbs a tree (Geoff assumes from the vantage point of the videos) and sends Geoff videos of his family narrated in the style of a nature documentary.  

He’s only seen glimpses of this goofy side of Michael--and some of it is truly so dumb that Geoff finds himself rolling his eyes--but Geoff would be lying if he said he didn't laugh at the little performances.

\---

Geoff doesn’t send much back, but Michael doesn’t seem to mind.

On Wednesday, Geoff makes the trek out to Kettle Falls and Frank’s, looking for something to occupy his time. He takes a picture of Heather the waitress with a smile and a full pot of coffee to send to Michael. She wrestles the phone away from Geoff and insists on taking a picture of him alone in the booth.

He sends both pictures to Michael.

>>Geoff: I’ve decided to run off with Heather. Don’t look for us.

He thinks about going to the dam but it’s a frigid day and overcast--wouldn’t even make for a nice picture to send to Michael.

\---

On Thanksgiving, Geoff’s phone goes silent. Michael had already warned Geoff that his dad had declared the Thanksgiving table a “no phone zone,” and that there would be radio silence for most of the day.

Geoff figures he won’t mind too much. He’d stockpiled books to read during the break and he’s just gotten to the point in the newest Tana French mystery where he’s too curious to ignore the book for long.

But the past few days had put Geoff into the new nervous habit of checking his phone--and he finds himself unlocking the phone a few times an hour even though he doubts Michael will send anything until after dinner.

\---

Even though Geoff's alone for the holiday, some traditions die hard. Thanksgiving breakfast with a bloody mary, for instance, is an important Ramsey family tradition that Geoff upholds that morning, in between reading and checking his phone.

And though Geoff’s never been a fan of turkey, he still cooks himself a large pan of spicy, flavorful andouille sausage stuffing with a recipe he inherited from his grandmother.

He drinks a few beers in between preparing the meal for himself, chopping ingredients and preheating the oven. By the time he sits down to the meal, he’s switched to bourbon and he’s buzzing warm and mild. The silence of his apartment and the familiar smell of stuffing mingles with the liquor and makes him introspective--and it's not unpleasant. It's all too commonplace for Geoff to pass his hours alone like this, his thoughts a warm torrent of philosophy, of hopes and fears, which turn inevitably to Michael. 

Geoff’s phone springs to life for the first time at 7. It’s a picture from Michael: a bathroom selfie, Michael’s shirt pulled up to expose his belly which he’s forcing out aggressively. It’s grotesque but it makes Geoff smile--he does have an impressive post-meal bloat on.

>>Michael: Bad news Geoff. I’m pregnant.

Geoff taps out a text.

>>Geoff: You’re a fucking mess dude

>>Michael: You love it though, it’s ok

\---

Michael’s shocked by the message he gets in response:

>>Geoff: Can i call?

Geoff’s never actually called him on the phone. His heart goes staccato, feeling like a kid who just got asked to his first dance. Quickly he taps out his reply:

>>Michael: Yeah dude, give me two seconds to get some privacy

Michael excuses himself--he’d been playing video games with his cousins--and heads to one of the guest bedrooms. He closes the door behind him and turns on the tv, pushing the volume up loud enough to drown out his conversation with Geoff in case anyone wanted to eavesdrop.

The phone is already buzzing in his pocket.

“Hey!” Michael answers, bright but quiet.

“Happy Thanksgiving Michael!” Geoff says, oddly cheerful on the other end.

“I’m glad you called me for once,” Michael says. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“It’s _real good_ to hear your voice too, Michael,” Geoff says. “I really miss you a lot.”

“Geoff… are you… are you drunk dialing me right now?”

“I mean… I may have been drinking.”

Michael laughs, can’t stop smiling just to hear the man’s voice.

“God, this ought to be rich,” Michael says.

“I just, uh, I’ve been thinking about you a lot, you know?” Geoff says.

His voice is hilariously high and Michael has never encountered Geoff when he’s truly drunk.

“Isn’t it only like 7 there right now?" Michael says. "How much have you had to drink?” 

“Um. Many whiskies. That’s not why I called,” Geoff says. “Look, I’m just--I’m sorry for everything, Michael. I’m not the person I thought I was--”

Michael tries to break in as Geoff speaks faster--he isn’t ready for the conversation to go so serious--but Geoff steamrolls over him.

“No, shut up,” Geoff says, not slowing down. “Just let me talk a second. You scare the shit out of me Michael--I’ve just never met anyone like you--I’m a grown fucking man and you’re just a kid--”

“Geoff--”

“I’m sorry that I’m such an asshole--I’m a huge asshole--I know.”

Michael gives up at that point and just listens.

“I can’t say what I want half the time--and I’m sorry I’m calling you and I’m sorry I’m drunk--you just scare the shit out of me, do you know that?”

“Yeah, you said that already.” Michael wants to be annoyed, but his brain is almost overheating trying to process everything Geoff’s saying.

“This isn’t where I was supposed to be at 30, but the longer I’m in Chewelah and the more I know about you, the more confident I am that this is _exactly_ where I’ve been trying to be all along. So just be patient with me, will you Michael?”

“Yeah, Geoff. Of course.”

“I’m sorry you’re with me--I hope you’ll come to your senses sometime--but until then I’ll be here? You know? I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”

Geoff clears his throat. Michael doesn’t know what to say.

“Michael, I think you might be the most important person I’ve ever met, maybe, and that scares--”

“Scares the shit out of you?”

“Yeah Michael. Yes. I hope you’re having a good Thanksgiving, anyway.”

“It’s ok. Not my favorite holiday to begin with.”

They both pause. Michael isn’t sure what to do with what Geoff’s told him--isn’t exactly sure how reliable all of this is and doesn’t know what to do with a sentimental, drunk Geoff.

“I do miss you, Geoff.”

“God I miss you Michael,” Geoff says immediately. “I miss you like hell--I didn't even remember what it was like to miss a person? God I guess that’s really sad.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“I wish life was really different for you, Michael,” Geoff says, sounding immensely sad.

“Geoff, _stop_. Life is ok!” Michael protests.

“I wish--you know you deserve somebody who could make you their whole world--you know that right?”

“Geoff, you ought to go to bed,” Michael says. “All of this is… totally great, and I don’t want to get off the phone with you, but I don’t think it’s fair to let you keep spilling your guts.”

“You’re right,” Geoff says. “I’m sorry Michael.”

“It’s ok Geoff,” Michael says, trying to soothe him. “I’m really glad you called ok? It’s great to hear your voice.”

“Yeah, yours too,” Geoff says. He sounds like he’s running out of steam, luckily. “Goodnight Michael, ok?”

“Goodnight, Geoff.”

Hanging up leaves Michael feeling bittersweet.

On the one hand, it’s supremely satisfying to hear Geoff actually talk about himself with his guard down. Michael realizes that this is the first time he’s ever heard the man talk about feelings without heavy qualifiers and every other sentence a self-deprecating joke. Trying to get Geoff to say what he’s feeling has been, up to this point, like playing a complicated game of telephone with someone who only barely grasps English. And the phone call has given Michael a wealth of new information.

On the other, Michael has to wonder which parts are truly Geoff and which parts are the whiskey talking.

He believes that Geoff misses him. But Michael isn’t ready to wrap his mind around being ‘maybe the most important person Geoff’s ever met.’

As much as he’d like to.

He files away the liquor-soaked conversation in his memory, going through it a few times like re-reading a love letter, before he pockets his phone and returns to his cousins in the living room.

\---

When Geoff hangs up the phone, he knows he’s said a bunch of shit he’ll probably regret.

He gets philosophical when he’s drunk--and frighteningly, brutally honest. Even if he can't always find the best words to convey the heady calculations going on in his consciousness. Liquor is complicated that way: spurring sophisticated thought while simultaneously removing his ability to express himself with any shred of eloquence.

It had ended more than a handful of friendships, and only compounded how guarded he became when he was sober.

And when he stops to think about it, Geoff can’t recall a time when he’s ever been spurred on to speak to a lover like that, so full of bright and pressing sensations and insights--and regrets--that he almost couldn’t control himself, the sentences bubbling and spilling out of him.

It’s an actual effort to keep his eyes open now--the heavy lids sagging--and he has to arch his eyebrows to keep them open. But his mind is still painfully awake and buzzing hot with emotion. The impulse to keep pouring himself out is still there, sitting weighty and uncomfortable in his chest. He’s halfway tempted to text Michael, which he knows would be a disaster--he’s being ridiculous--so he picks up a pad of paper instead. Geoff scrawls a short poem, then--an ode to Michael that he knows will never see the light of day--something that he knows he’ll never want to read sober. Sweet and sappy as simple syrup. Just one of those things you have to get off your chest.

The holidays are some real shit, he thinks. Just rub it in the face of the people who have nowhere else to go. Not that he’d want to be bothered with other people’s baggage tonight. He’d just as well be alone, not offending anyone, not saying the wrong thing.

Well. Probably saying the wrong thing to Michael.

Definitely the wrong thing to Michael.

But his fingers had tapped away at the phone unbidden to text Michael, searching him out in the great virtual abyss, wanting that warm contact, wishing Michael were there. What a strange thing, Geoff thinks, to love someone like family, to want them by your side but not to have them. What a sweet torture.

Michael—what a wonder. His videos while he’d been in Jersey, his messages acting as islands in the cold, dark current of the break. And probably Geoff should have accepted the invitation to spend Thanksgiving with Gus and Esther, he thinks now, but he’d been too prideful and too scared to accept.

He won’t spend Christmas alone, he vows. As much as he hates the holiday, he refuses to find himself drunk and alone a second time--even if it means nothing to him, even if it’s not a significant holiday. Thanksgiving is enough. Christmas will be different. No drunken confessions in the early evening hours--how pathetic.

And what if Michael wakes up tomorrow and doesn’t want him? What then?

The buzz takes a predictable downward turn then as it runs its course, and Geoff decides to distract himself, picking up a large volume before quickly falling asleep with the book in his hands.

\---

On Friday, Geoff wakes up in stages.

There’s the moment of awareness of existence, which is fine. As soon as he moves, that moment is followed by the moment of awareness of a hangover.

The back of his head feels, when he moves, as if he spent Thanksgiving slamming it hard against the ground.

It’s not Geoff’s first rodeo. Hangovers are familiar, admittedly. He lets himself sit in bed, assessing the hangover for a few minutes. He doesn’t want to think yet about what he may have said last night. And as he moves around in bed, he can tell that it’s at least not so bad that he’s going to vomit.

There’s a pad of paper at the foot of the bed and he recognizes his writing. He’s flush with shame, remembering the creative impulse that had seized him the night before and knowing that the content of the page would probably make him hate himself.

At least he hadn’t harassed Michael through the night with sappy text messages.

He forces himself out of bed, sliding the poem into his desk drawer where he can ignore it before dragging himself across the apartment to the kitchen. There’s half a bottle of soda in the fridge, which he chugs happily, wanting the sugar and caffeine. Then a glass of water, a few aspirins.

Then there’s the matter of coffee.

Geoff turns on a burner, fills his kettle with water, and sets it on the heat. There are beans already in the burr grinder, and when he turns it on, the noise is predictably earsplitting. His head feels like it’s exploding as the machine whirs and squeals, reaching higher octaves as more of the beans are ground. It finally occurs to Geoff to cover his ears weakly, but the machine is almost done by the time that he does.

The more water he drinks, the better he starts to feel--but his joints are doing something terrible and it feels like someone was walking up and down his back all night. His joints didn’t used to ache like this and it’s just one more reminder that he’s not 22 anymore. An old, pathetic bastard.

He hopes Michael isn’t too mad at him.

  
  
  



	22. Interlude

Though they don’t talk about it, December 5--the first Friday of the month where Michael will no longer be grounded--looms like a beacon of hope in both of their minds.

\---

Michael needs to have a conversation with Geoff about everything that Geoff said on Thanksgiving. He thinks about it so actively in fact that it becomes difficult to play video games with his cousins, to pass time with his brother.

But it’s something he needs to do face to face. Not a phone call, not a text message.

So, unsure of what to do, he simply waits for the break to end--feeling suddenly alone in a room full of people.

\---

Geoff expects--or at least hopes--that Michael will resume his schedule of furious texting on Friday. But he doesn’t hear a word.

So the man keeps himself busy: working on lesson plans, cooking, trying not to simply sit around sulking and drinking and staring out at the snow.

When he still doesn’t hear from Michael on Saturday, he begins to worry. He can vaguely recall what he said on Thanksgiving in the haze of brown liquor--and what he can’t remember, Geoff can easily fill in the blanks with whatever else is in his head.

Had he been particularly obnoxious on the phone?

There could be one million things he’s done wrong, from the content of the call to the timing to the delivery. The whole thing is utterly regrettable and it takes most of his self control not to jump immediately to worst case scenarios.

And yet, even in the worst case scenario, what was happening out in the silent world of Michael Jones? Michael was tired of him, offended, or hurt in some way that Geoff couldn’t smooth over. So the whole thing ends.

Would it be the worst thing?

For Geoff, maybe. But he wants better for Michael than himself anyway. Michael deserves better.

So maybe it is for the best, Geoff decides.

He had shown Michael his true self and now the slow process of the end was beginning.

It was ok. It was good. It was what was bound to happen all along.

\---

By the end of the day Friday, Michael starts to work ahead on his classwork. It seems to be the only thing he can force himself to do other than playing out scenarios with Geoff in his mind. And it’s simple enough to sit and work through math drills, Spanish conjugations, and history outlines.

His cousins are all sprawled on the sectional sofa, dominating the living room as they grind their way through a poorly organized video game raid.

Michael’s found a loveseat on the edge of the room and he’s working through a diagram in a notebook on his lap when his mother walks in.

“You’re not playing with your cousins?” she says, almost concerned.

“Nah, ma,” Michael says not looking up.

“What is that? Geometry?”

“It’s just a weird unit for finite math. I asked Ellis for some extra credit work and I figured I can get it knocked out before we go back on Monday.”

His brother chuckles something about Michael being a nerd from the edge of the sofa and the cousins grunt out laughs. Michael ignores them.

“I’m very proud of you, Michael,” his mom says, probably a bit too enthusiastically. The conversation is irking him, but he wasn’t going to lie and say he was doing something other than schoolwork. “Do you need anything? Do you want a hot chocolate?”

“Nah, ma.”

\---

Saturday is the same story. In between forced interactions, Michael works ahead for his classes. It’s practically a foreign concept for him, if he’s honest with himself. He’s always been used to doing things at the last minute, cramming right before a test.

He didn’t bring much schoolwork--hadn’t anticipated being motivated enough to do very much--and by mid-morning he’s exhausted everything he can do for math, marine bio, history, and Spanish. Geoff hadn’t assigned anything for the break, but Michael had looked at the syllabus and tucked the next thing they were reading into his carry-on: The Crucible, a play by Arthur Miller.

\---

Geoff doesn’t hear from Michael until almost midnight on Sunday. He’s propped in his arm chair, frantically devouring the last few pages of the latest Tana French book that he’s been slowly making his way through during the break when his phone buzzes to life all the way in the kitchen.

He crosses the apartment, sees who the text is from, and flips open the phone to reveal a paragraph-long text from Michael.

Geoff stops, forces himself to go back to the chair and sit down while he reads what Michael has to say.

>>Michael: OK so I get that John Proctor is supposed to be the hero and all and so yeah it’s very tragic the way the whole thing ends up but hear me out on this: what if you look at The Crucible as a tragicomedy instead of a tragedy? Like, then Proctor, sure, he’s an important character, but the real main dude would be Reverend Hale. Think about it. Like, he’s finally given a chance to do what he’s been training for his whole life and then he realizes the whole thing is this huge sham and he’s ruined multiple lives. And Proctor dies--tragic--but Hale gets zero release and no resolution and his whole value system is fucked forever.

Geoff doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

It’s a completely interesting idea, granted, and Geoff would love nothing more than to talk to Michael about it. But holy hell, what was going on? Why was Michael a full week ahead of the syllabus--and more than that, why was this the first text he gets from the boy in three days? He considers carefully before typing a reply.

>>Geoff: So. I don’t hear from you for three days. And you want to talk about the reading for class.

The silence after he sends the message is long enough for Geoff to pick his book back up and begin reading again. Eventually a reply buzzes back to him.

>>Michael: We’ve got a lot to talk about. I can’t stop thinking about this stupid fucking play though. Sorry to have bugged you.

>>Geoff: I’m sure I’m the one who owes YOU an apology. We can find a way to talk this week if you want.

>>Michael: Thank god, I think my brain would break if not. You don’t owe me an apology though if you meant what you said on Thursday. Night Geoff.

So. Michael wasn’t mad at him. That much, at least, was a relief.

\---

Fifteen days. Michael hasn’t been alone with Geoff for fifteen goddamn days, and hasn’t even laid eyes on him for nine. It is the longest period of time they’ve been physically apart since the very first day they met in August, he realizes.

Michael spends early Monday morning preparing himself to act normal during the first period.

But nothing he’s told himself prepares Michael for the utter sense of relief he feels when he sees his English teacher that morning as he enters the classroom, laughing with Gavin about a story the boy’s telling him.

And of course he hadn’t forgotten a detail about the man: not his unruly hair, not his shitty posture when he’s concentrating, not his wide smile, or his tired eyes.

At the sight of him, some unknown weight lifts off of Michael, his chest opening up, his breath deeper and clear. Geoff is propped against his desk, and when he sees Michael, he hides an obvious smile behind his thermos, drawing a deep swig of coffee.

Seeing him every day, it was easy to forget their short history, easy to gloss over the enormous impact Geoff has already made on Michael’s life. But seeing him now, seeing him after two confusing weeks apart, puts their relationship into sharp focus.

This is the man who--at least when he’s drunk--thinks Michael deserves the world, who thinks Michael is important, who would probably scoop Michael up in his arms right now if they were alone.

This is the man who taught him to love words, to love poetry, to feel a confidence in his own intelligence.

This is the man who had risked his own life in a dark alley to save him when he’d been a moron, who’d driven an hour to search for him, who had bandaged him up.

This is the man man who took a chance on him--who was trying, at least, to have something with Michael.

He realizes too much in that moment between the door and the desk, and it’s all he can do not to run to him, not to shout about it. Michael definitely isn’t listening to Gavin anymore but his friend doesn’t notice, assumes that the open smile Michael can’t begin to hide is a result of his story. And now at their seats, Michael stares openly at his teacher.

Michael watches as Geoff swallows and looks past his students, his face going slack, his mind somewhere else--but still warm, not stony or troubled.

His expression looks as if he’s just been let in on a wonderful secret.

\---

When Geoff sees Michael walk into the classroom on Monday, his heart flutters in spite of himself in a way that’s beautiful and distracting. There’s nothing remarkable about Michael that day. He’s just as cherubic and wind-chapped as normal, his fleecy uniform jacket clean and unwrinkled, his harsh haircut grown in a bit over the Thanksgiving break, his cheeks pink and eyes clear, his posture confident as he jostles and laughs with Gavin, throwing Geoff the shortest glance, the whitest smile.

And sure, it’s a visceral and even an unexpectedly sexual experience on some level: the comfort of seeing his lover again after an absence, the attraction of sharing a room with someone he wants to wrap up into his arms and kiss deeply. The memories of Michael’s body, the sounds he makes when they’re alone.

But there’s something there on another level as well that’s more profound than Geoff had been counting on.

The feeling of sharing a room with someone who accepts you and on some level knows your true self.

The deep soul-affirming knowledge that, after a long absence, someone you care about is safe and whole and happy and smiling and laughing.

Being in the same room with Michael makes him feel as if some part of Geoff is suddenly complete again in a way he hadn’t expected.

And despite the fact that it’s Monday morning after a long break, despite the fact that he’d been up far too late the night before finishing his book, trying to decide whether he was relieved or not about Michael not being mad at him, attempting to parse through what comes next between them--despite all of that, the sight of Michael hits him viscerally and cerebrally and one thought alone bubbles unbidden to the surface of Geoff’s mind: I love him.

 


	23. Chapter 23

Geoff seems dreamy and distracted in class that day, his lecture wandering aimlessly as he attempts to introduce the class to The Crucible and Arthur Miller.

Michael isn’t sure whether to chalk it up to the fact that it’s their first day back after the break or something else.

Of course, he’s having a difficult time concentrating too--not only because he’s already completely finished reading and thinking about The Crucible, but also because he’s giddy to be in the room with Geoff again after the long absence.

He watches the clock impatiently.

\---

It’s all Geoff can do not to constantly glance at the clock ticking away silently near the door. It’s all he can do to actually trudge through the lesson plan.

It’s not that he wants to pull Michael aside and declare his love and carry him off into the sunset. He just needs a few minutes alone with the thoughts--with those three words--to process them, to think through it. It’s the same feeling he’s had when a line of poetry or dialogue has occurred to him at an inopportune moment: the need to abandon the day’s plans to explore the idea before it’s gone, ethereal and forgotten.

Except, he tells himself, this isn’t like that. He won’t forget. Calm down. Teach.

The bell ringing at the end of the period is as beautiful as a symphony, and the students begin to file out of the classroom.

Michael is up at his desk immediately.

“When can I sit down with you to talk through this theory about Reverend Hale?” Michael demands, raising his eyebrows and doing everything short of making air quotes to let Geoff know that he has no intention of talking about The Crucible whatsoever.

“Not today,” Geoff says quickly without thinking. A moment alone today and he’s liable to lose his cool on campus. He knows himself too well for that.

Michael’s face falls.

“Tomorrow, then?” Michael suggests.

“Sure. Stop by here during your free period,” Geoff says, smiling.

\---

Michael’s definitely getting better at the delayed gratification aspect of his relationship with Geoff--whatever it was they were calling it--but it did piss him off when Geoff was holding all the damned cards.

What the hell, after all, was so goddamned important that he couldn’t talk to Michael until _Tuesday_? Especially after he’d busted his ass the week before Thanksgiving. Especially after not seeing each other for more than a damn week.

The day spirals away from him, and as it goes on, he becomes more frustrated.

What was it like when you were free from high school and you were in a relationship with somebody? Did you get to see them as much as you wanted, or was it socially unacceptable to want to spend every waking moment with someone?

Michael mulls it over and figures that if he were actually able to see Geoff more than once a week, it would be less annoying to spend the time apart. Instead, Geoff is just dangled in front of his face for 45 minutes every morning, there as a teacher but utterly out of reach as a friend, a lover.

Some equal footing would be nice.

\---

Geoff’s first moment alone comes at lunch, and he stays sequestered in his classroom after a brief sojourn in the lounge to put together a measly sandwich and brew a carafe of fresh coffee.

For the past nine days, he’s had nothing but time alone--and now he finds himself scrambling to get away from anyone’s company to seek time alone with his thoughts. The irony is not lost on him.

Geoff reasons that he’s probably been in love with Michael since the day he raced to Spokane with the vague worry that Michael could be in danger.

Maybe before that.

But goddamn if there hadn’t been some mental barriers obscuring the realization.

There is nothing different about today, it seems, that would make things so starkly clear to Geoff. And yet there it is, and here he is, eating a sandwich and casually considering the undeniable fact that he is in love with a high school senior.

But what to do, now, with this knowledge?

Geoff thinks back to the first time he’d said the words to someone. It had been his freshman year of college. She had been his sweetheart. And when he told her he loved her, she had looked at him with a straight face and, smiling, said “Ah. I’m not ready yet.”

Crushed wasn’t the word for it. Destroyed, maybe.

He’d gotten into his car and driven for hours, through mountains, through cities.

It was beyond terrible to take that leap, to trust that person, only to realize that the two of them weren’t on the same page to begin with.

And though she’d said it back to him a week later, he always had the suspicion that the words were only meant to keep him comfortable.

Never again had the words come so easily. And in no other relationship had it come naturally after that--Geoff always wondering instead “Do I love them? Has it been long enough?”--and even after the fact, thinking “Am I just saying it to say it?”

When Geoff was dating--which had admittedly been a while--he was constantly taking stock, keeping track, analyzing.

And of course he hadn’t taken that same sort of mental survey with Michael. Their relationship existed outside of that strange artifice of dating--and despite all of the hindrances their situation presented, it was also apparently liberating Geoff’s mind--his emotions--from those old hangups. Allowing him to organically appreciate the fact that he loves Michael without any expectations, without any pressure.

Michael, he realizes, has probably never said the words to anyone but his family.

Geoff smiles into his sandwich--realizes that his face is almost tired of smiling.

It’s a good feeling to love Michael.

It’s enough to leave it at that, for now.

\---

Michael counts down the hours to their “meeting” on Tuesday during his free period. He barely eats lunch, checking the clock constantly, talking himself into and out of going early to Geoff’s classroom.

When the bell finally rings and everyone is tucked into their next period, Michael pushes into Geoff’s classroom. His teacher is already waiting for him, sitting at his desk at the front of the room, tattooed hands laced together on the tabletop.

“Have a seat, Michael,” Geoff says formally, nodding to the small desk closest to his.

“O… K…” Michael says, setting down his bag. “You realize I didn’t ask you to meet with me to actually talk about The Crucible, right?”

Geoff laughs easily and rewards him with a smile.

“Yeah, I get it,” he says. “But to be honest? If I don’t sit down at _this_ desk, and if you don’t sit down at _that_ desk, there is a very real possibility that I’m going to touch you. And then I’m not going to stop. And I swear to god, Michael, I am _not_ going to fuck you in this English classroom.”

“Goddamn it Geoff,” Michael laughs. “Not even once?”  
  
“Not even once,” Geoff says, stifling his own smile.

“I missed you a lot, Geoff,” Michael says, unable to stop smiling. “God it feels good to talk to you.”

“I missed you a lot, too. I don’t think I realized how much until you walked in yesterday,” Geoff says.

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “Something like that. I felt like I’d been holding my breath and I didn’t even know it.”

Geoff’s smile is content. It feels strange to be speaking so intimately with such a physical distance between them. Anyone walking by the classroom window would probably assume Michael was in trouble with his teacher.

“I’m glad you’re not mad at me,” Geoff says, “with all the shit I unloaded onto you on Thanksgiving.”

“Fucking mad at you?” Michael echoes back. “Like, you finally admit I’m important to you and I’m gonna be mad at you?”

Geoff shrugs.

“I mean, I was freaked out that you were saying it when you were drunk, but if you stand by it sober…”

“Yeah. I do,” Geoff says. “I’m sorry I had to be drunk to have the courage to say it.”

“I’ll take what I can get, Geoff.”

Geoff frowns.

“Ugh. A dagger through my heart, dude,” Geoff says, his eyes turning away.

“What?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Geoff says. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to take what you can get from this flawed, asshole, old human being.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant--”

“Yeah but you know you shouldn’t feel like you should have to settle for the first person who gives you attention when you’re only 18--”

“And you’re not exactly the first person who’s given me attention.”

Geoff pauses, takes a deep breath.

“Fair enough,” he says after a moment. “Sorry.”

“I feel like we’re talking in circles,” Michael says. “At what point are you going to trust that I’m smart enough to make a decision for myself?”

“If that decision involves choosing me at the exclusion of everyone else? It’s going to take a really long time,” Geoff says. “And that has more to do with me than it does to do with you.”

“Geoff. I swear to Christ,” Michael says, feeling himself get mad, trying to be logical. “Whatever self deprecating bullshit you have going on behind that beautiful fucking face of yours needs to stop.”

Geoff smiles crookedly at that.

“I am prime fucking time, OK?” Michael says. “I think we both know I could have my pick of appropriately aged human beings.” Geoff rolls his eyes and snorts. “You saved my life, Geoff,” Michael says. “And I liked you plenty before that. And I like you more every day.”

Geoff sighs.

“I’m pouring my heart out here, dude,” Michael says. “Give me something to work with.”

“I’m trying Michael,” he says. “I go fucking stupid around you.”

“Yeah, and I scare the shit out of you, right, I was on the other end of that phone call, you remember?”

That stops Geoff and Michael can tell he’s thinking.

“Do you remember what I told you after that?” Geoff asks.

“Which time? You said it like six times.”

“Right,” Geoff says, frowning. “Well, at some point I vaguely remember saying that I think you might be the most important person I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “I remember that part.”

“That still stands, Michael,” Geoff says. “That wasn’t just me being a drunk fuckup.” His eyes soften and Michael doesn’t know whether to smile or not. It almost sounds like Geoff’s admitting defeat rather than saying something so lovely.

“So what does that mean, Geoff?”

“Just put yourself in my shoes,” Geoff says. “You’ve met the most important person of your life and you don’t want to ruin it. Imagine the weight of that.”

“Dude, imagine what?” Michael says, rolling his eyes. “I live that shit every day in goddamn first period English class.”

Geoff laughs.

“You’re seriously a moron if you didn’t realize that,” Michael says.

“No shit, Michael,” he says.

“So compound whatever you’re feeling, pretend it’s towards a moron, add the complications of not having a car, not having your own place, having a shitload of tests to study for, and not knowing whether you’ll be grounded next week--and you’ve got a summary of my life right now.”

Geoff smiles.

“Sounds like hell,” Geoff says. “You sure you don’t want out now?”

“Fuck no,” Michael says, not missing a beat. “When can I come over?”

“Friday night,” Geoff says. “Until then, ignore me and do your work.”

“OK _mom_ ,” Michael says. Pauses. And then: “I really wish I could hug you. This is weird and gross.”

“I’m sure we would’ve talked for approximately five seconds if you could actually hug me right now,” Geoff says. “Maybe it’s good for us.”

Michael nods.

“So tell me more about this weird Reverend Hale theory,” Geoff says with a smile.

\---

Michael and Geoff go home and they both sleep better. Wednesday is uneventful, just a blip on the timeline towards Friday, towards a point where they can tangle together and stay that way.

\---

On Thursday, Michael gets a weird text from his dad in third period.

>> Dad: You’ll be home for dinner tonight?

Michael taps back a reply:

>> Michael: I can be. What’s up?

>> Dad: Nothing bad. Christmas coming early.

>> Michael: Uhh cool?

>> Dad: Definitely cool.

\---

Because it’s December, the campus is awash in Christmas baked goods. Geoff quickly falls into the bad habit of not packing food and sampling whatever’s being offered throughout the day, washing it down with black coffee--but by Thursday afternoon, he’s feeling borderline diabetic and realizes that his diet has been 98% cookies and bourbon since Monday.

He decides to swear off sugar and holiday food in general and make something with a little oomph behind it.

So when he shows up at Safeway right after school, he’s not completely sure what he’s going to make but he knows he’s going to make a lot of it and it is in no way going to involve Christmas. He grabs a rolling cart and makes a beeline for the meat department.

Pork ribs are on sale. Geoff thinks about putting them in the oven, slow and low, buying a ridiculous amount and eating them for the next few days. He has no idea whether or not Michael likes ribs but the gears in his head are already turning and he immediately thinks about showing off his barbeque skills.

He picks up four slabs of St. Louis cut ribs. As he goes down the mental checklist of what he’ll need to make sauce, Geoff manages to run his cart bodily into someone standing in the middle of an aisle.

“Shit, sorry man,” Geoff says as the man dodges, rubbing his hip. Geoff quickly maneuvers the cart away, embarrassed at how distracted he is.

“Geoff?”

Geoff spins, and at first the person saying his name only registers as “hot guy in a fisherman sweater.” It takes Geoff a second to process.

“Oh, shit, Ryan!” he says. “Sorry I about ran you over.”

Ryan Haywood gives him a broad smile. He looks older than when Geoff saw him in October--short on sleep maybe.

“What are you up to in Chewelah?” Geoff asks, pulling his cart over and out of the stream of supermarket traffic.

Ryan shrugs, breaks eye contact.

“The semester at school is over,” he says. “I have… some friends here who I promised I’d catch up with.”

It registers with Geoff that the normally at-ease man is being extra awkward, but he glosses over it.

“Cool, man,” Geoff says. “Where are you staying?”

“Uh, just with some friends,” he says, staring at a spot somewhere behind Geoff’s head. Geoff glances down at the hand basket Ryan’s carrying, surveying its contents. Cans of soda, a multi-package of microwavable mac and cheese. Wherever he’s staying, it doesn’t look like he’s got access to a decent kitchen.

“You ought to stop by class tomorrow,” Geoff says. “We’re doing Arthur Miller right now.”

“I don’t know,” Ryan says, frowning. “I feel like it’s so disruptive, and I’m sure they’re all distracted with finals around the corner.”

Ryan rubs the back of his neck and sighs. He really looks like a different person, exhausted, his face hollow. It seems like there’s more to this story than ‘in town visiting friends,’ and Geoff is equal parts curious and worried about the man.

“Well you at least should come around for dinner one night while you’re here,” Geoff says.

Ryan immediately starts fumbling with an excuse.

“Nah, fuck that, actually,” Geoff interrupts him. “I’m not letting a grown man have EZ mac for dinner. Come over now--I’m making ribs. ”

It catches Ryan off guard enough that Geoff know he’s winning.

“Damn,” Ryan says, peering into Geoff’s cart. “Feeding an army?”

“Feeding _you_ tonight,” Geoff says. “You look like you could use it. Or some company. Or something.”

Ryan gives him a crooked smile.

“You’re right, I think.”

“Great,” Geoff says. “Let me grab a few more things for sauce and you can follow me home.”

“Thanks, Geoff,” Ryan says.

He looks almost a little relieved as he falls into step behind Geoff.

\---

Geoff is silently thankful that he took the time this morning to make his bed and put away the half-finished glasses of bourbon that had begun to litter more than a few surfaces of his apartment as he unlocks the door.

Ryan has insisted on carrying up most of the groceries which is as annoying as it is helpful.

They put down the plastic bags and Geoff sets about the task of being a host before unpacking the food.

“Make yourself at home,” Geoff says. “I mean… as much as you can. I know the seating options are limited.”

He crosses the small apartment to open up the curtains and gestures to a bar stool. Ryan takes a seat across the bar where he has a good view of what’s going on in the kitchen.

“Would you like a drink?” Geoff asks before realizing that he doesn’t have much to offer. “I have beer, liquor… uh. Water?”

“I don’t drink, but I appreciate it. I’ll take a water.”

Geoff grabs him a glass and passes the water across the bar.

“Do you mind if I drink? Because it’s kind of a package deal with the cooking,” Geoff says.

Ryan smiles.

“Of course not,” he says. “How the hell do you think I could get along with English department faculty if I couldn’t tolerate people drinking in my vicinity?”

“That’s true,” Geoff says, cracking a beer. “A sober English teacher. You’re kind of a novel concept, dude.”

Ryan laughs at that, looking more now like he did the day they met, a bit less worried. A bit more, Geoff guesses, like himself.

“Sorry to strong arm you into coming over and keeping me company,” Geoff says, washing his hands and tieing an apron around his waist. “To be honest, I’ve spent every day of the last three months with teenagers. I could use an afternoon with, you know. An adult.”

“Not at all,” Ryan says, “I’m glad you saved me from EZ mac.”

Ryan talks as Geoff gets the ribs prepped. And there’s that easy manner of his again: skipping straight over the small talk and starting a conversation with Geoff as if they’ve long been friends. He asks Geoff about his first semester as a high school teacher, about how he’s adjusting to the school, specific questions about how kids in his classes are doing.

At every corner, Ryan pries in gently and gets Geoff to talk about himself. In another lifetime, maybe, Geoff realizes he would’ve been infatuated with Ryan. Attractive, smart, same interests. And It’s almost unnerving how easy it is for Geoff to talk to him. Not something he can say about most people he meets.

But before long, Ryan is prying at an area of life Geoff’s not quite ready to talk about.

“You’re looking… I don’t know, _healthier_ than you did when I met you?” Ryan says. “I swear it seemed like you hadn’t slept for two months back in October.”

“I probably hadn’t,” Geoff admits.

“What’s your secret now? Because I need some of whatever it is,” Ryan says.

“Whiskey, probably,” Geoff says, shrugging. “A lot of self loathing?”

“Self loathing looks good on you, Geoff.”

Geoff snorts out a laugh and looks at Ryan over his shoulder as he works with a rack of ribs. Was Ryan flirting with him? But no, he looks genuinely introspective sitting at the bar with his water.

The ribs are ready to go in the oven and Geoff pushes them onto racks unceremoniously, wiping his hands off on his apron.

“Look, I don’t want to intrude,” Geoff says. “But it seems like there’s more to your situation right now than you visiting some friends.”

Ryan sighs, smiles.

“Yeah. That’s a lie,” he admits. “I’ve been sitting here trying to gauge how much you might hate me if I told you what I’m actually in town for.”

“Hate you? Christ, Ryan,” Geoff says. “I can hardly say we’re fast friends, but I’ve been standing here thinking about how hard I’d try to date you if we were both single.”

Ryan laughs easily at that, blushing.

“Whatever it is, I highly doubt it would make me hate you,” Geoff says. “I think you have totally underestimated what an asshole I am. But you’re under no obligation to tell me shit. I’m just the guy making the ribs, ok?”

“It would probably be nice to confide in someone,” Ryan says with a crooked look on his face.

“Then shoot,” Geoff says.

“I’m here to try and fix a mess I made with someone--you know him actually.”

“Someone from school?” Geoff guesses, since those are still the only people he knows in town.

“In your, uh, class actually,” Ryan says, staring down into his water glass. “Ugh, this is so weird. I apologize, Geoff. I don’t want to put you in an awkward situation.”

“Narvaez,” Geoff says.

It’s not a question.

Geoff remembers, suddenly, the strange tension between Ryan and his student, the odd confrontation with Joel Heyman in the parking lot.

Ryan’s eyes shoot back up to Geoff’s face.

“How--”

“Lucky guess,” Geoff says, sighing deeply. “Jesus fucking Christ Ryan.”

“I know, it’s incredibly fucked up--nothing happened while I was teaching him, it’s not like that--”

Geoff barks out a hard laugh, which dissolves into almost hysterical laughter--it’s all too fucking much. Ryan and Ray. What the fuck. What are the odds. He presses his hands over his face, laughing too hard, knowing he’s giving off the wrong impression.

“I know,” Ryan says, trying to talk over Geoff’s laughter. “God, Geoff, I know--If you want me to go--”

“Ryan, please,” Geoff says, gulping over his laughs. “I’m not mad, I just. God.”

He shakes his head. Where even to begin.

“I really can’t even believe this shit,” Geoff says. “We need to talk.”

\---

It is a very strange thing to tell another adult human being that you’re sleeping with a high school student.

It is perhaps an even stranger thing for that other adult human being to tell you that while he’s not sleeping one of your high school students, he is in fact, in love with him.

\---

Geoff goes first, starting the story back in August, all the way back to the summer cold snap. He tells Ryan about how he’d wandered, bored, into The Rooster on an unlucky night before school started, before he was settled into his apartment. How Geoff had zeroed in on a young guy--the only person in the bar who looked lonelier than Geoff.

He doesn’t plan on giving Ryan every gory detail, of course, but Geoff recounts the games of pool, the escalating flirtation--and finally, unable to make eye contact, Geoff tells him the terms of the bet they had settled on.

“Turns out, Michael Jones is a fucking pool shark,” Geoff says.

Ryan’s laughing so hard by this point that he’s red faced.

“Great, well,” Geoff says. “I’m glad _one_ of us is getting a lot of joy out of this story.”

“Geoff!” Ryan says between laughing. “You blew your student in the bathroom of a fucking bar?”

“That’s the gist of it,” Geoff says, flat.

“What a fucking nightmare!”

“And of course your Narvaez was complicit in the whole thing--picked him up, knew about it on Monday,” Geoff says, frowning. “He actually had the balls to out me about my tongue ring on the first fucking day of school. Little shit.”

Ryan rubs his eyes hard, crying a little from laughing.

“He can be a handful in class,” Ryan says through a smile. “He makes jokes too fast for his own good.”

“Yeah, a real gem you’ve landed yourself there,” Geoff says, frowning.

“Well, trying to land,” Ryan corrects him. “An attempt is being made.”

Geoff continues his story at Ryan’s urging, detailing his struggle. How much he’d wanted Michael--dreamed about him--been impressed with him. The easy rapport they had in class. The way things had come to a head the week Ryan had visited--the final weekend when Michael had returned to Spokane and almost gotten himself killed--and everything that followed.

“It’s so fucked up, Ryan,” Geoff says, sighing deeply.

“I mean.”

“What?”

“The only fucked up part is that you’re his teacher _right now_ , but that’s only temporary.”

“I’m still trying to convince myself that you’re right,” Geoff says. “On one hand, it’s the realest thing I’ve felt in a long time. On the other, he’s _eighteen_ Ryan.”

“Yeah? And you’ve said he’s smart,” Ryan says. “He _is_ smart. Don’t forget I taught him too. They may look like kids--and some of them are--but Jones was one of the ones who could always go toe to toe with me in discussions. Not that I could get him to talk like you, but I’d say he’d give most of my grad school classmates a run for their money in terms of depth of thought.”

“That’s true,” Geoff says. “He’s smarter and more mature than most of the college kids I taught. None of that makes me hate myself any less.”

“You know at some point you’ll have to get over all that,” Ryan says. “Or, I guess, risk losing him. And be on damage control, like I am.”

“You’re right,” Geoff says. “I think.”

“I’m serious Geoff,” Ryan says. “The way you met was… weird. Granted. But you shouldn’t let the love of your life walk away from you because you weren’t ready to deal with the reality of the situation.”

The advice hits him in the gut and Geoff frowns. He hadn’t told Ryan that he loves Michael. Was he really _that_ transparent? He excuses himself for a second, cracks a third beer, peeks at the ribs sizzling in the oven. He returns to where Ryan is sitting in his armchair and Geoff sits, legs crossed, at the foot of his bed. Ryan is examining his second glass of water intently, frowning.

“Is that what happened--with Ray, I mean?” Geoff asks, gently.

“Hm, yeah,” Ryan says, not looking up. “That’s the story so far. I had my chance with him before I went off for the semester.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“There are probably a thousand reasons, the foremost being that he was 17.”

“Ah. Well, that sort of puts it into stark focus.”

“I couldn’t see past it,” Ryan explains. “And I’m kicking myself now for not just being honest with him, telling him that I’d wait for him if he wanted.”

“And what’s with Heyman? He looked pretty heated that day you visited,” Geoff says.

“I guess after I completely and utterly wrecked Ray’s head, he found comfort with somebody else,” Ryan says. “Did you know the weekend I showed up to visit was his birthday?”

“No idea,” Geoff said. “Nobody mentioned it.”

“Yeah, well. I’d forgotten,” Ryan says. “Real dick move at a real inopportune time.”

“Did he think you were going to show up the day he turned 18 and change your mind?” Geoff says, cocking his head.

“Apparently,” Ryan says with a deep sigh. “And so instead he, uh. Fell in with Joel.”

“Wait, back that up. ‘Fell in with,’ meaning…?”  
  
“I’m not certain, Geoff,” Ryan says. “Joel sure did know everything about our relationship when he gave me a piece of his mind in the parking lot. And now Ray won’t return my calls, emails--anything.”

“So here you are,” Geoff says.

“Here I am.”

Both men jump as there’s a loud knock on the door.

“Open up, you old asshole!” someone shouts from the other side. “I’ve got a surprise!”

“Is that--?” Ryan asks.

“Hm,” Geoff says. “Yeah, that would be Michael.”

\---

Michael’s parents had really outdone themselves this year.

When Ray had dropped him off after school, both of his parents had been home and their cars were parked out front. They ambushed him when he walked in the door.

“What the hell’s going on?” Michael had said.

“There’s something for you in the garage,” his mom had said, smiling.

And waiting in the garage was a very old but clean Dodge Neon, complete with a giant bow on top.

“Holy shit you guys,” Michael had said. “A car?”

“Merry Christmas, Michael,” his dad had said, setting a hand on his shoulder.

“Holy shit!”

“Michael, _language_.”

“I’m sorry ma, but… holy shit!”

His dad had laughed. His mom had frowned.

“Thank you so much, you guys,” Michael said. “This is seriously incredible.”

“We can’t have Ray driving you back and forth to college,” his dad had said--and Michael was so happy about the gift that he couldn’t even bring himself to cringe at the fact that his dad was bringing up college.

“Why don’t we knock the dust off your driver’s license and go for a spin?” his dad had suggested. Michael had gotten his license two years ago after a mandatory driver’s ed course in school, but his driving skills had definitely gotten rusty with two years of Ray driving him everywhere.

His dad had oriented him to the car and given him a refresher. The car was old but drove just fine, the interior spotless.

“This is amazing, Dad,” he’d said as they cruised in the neighborhood.

“Your mother wanted us to hold off and give it to you on Christmas,” his dad said. “But it seemed cruel to make you wait for three more weeks when you could be driving it around. Plus you would’ve noticed there weren’t any presents for you under the tree eventually.”  
\---

He’d begged them to skip dinner, said he wanted to go show Ray, and they’d given in after a moment.

And he _did_ go visit Ray--showing up unannounced on his friend’s doorstep. Ray had legitimately been happy for him, and not just because he no longer had to chauffeur his friend around.

“I’m gonna miss having you as my copilot,” Ray had said.

“Yeah fucking right.”

“You gonna go bang Mr. Ramsey on weeknights now?”

“Fuck you, Ray.”

\---

“Geoff, come on!” Michael shouts through the door. There’s a voice on the other side but he can’t make it out and it’s taking Geoff _forever_ to answer the door.

“You got another dude in there or something?” he shouts loud enough for neighbors to hear.

“Jesus Christ, Michael,” Geoff says, finally cracking the door and pulling him inside. “Keep your damn voice down.”

“Goddamn, something in here smells amazing,” Michael says, immediately leaning over the bar and into the kitchen. “Are you cooking us dinner?” he jokes.

“Well he’s cooking _someone_ dinner,” a deep voice chimes in from Geoff’s desk. Michael’s face goes blank as he leans back. Who the fuck was over? Geoff doesn’t have guests.

“Ryan? Holy shit,” he says, finally seeing the man sitting sheepishly in Geoff’s armchair.

“Hey Michael,” Ryan says with a smile and a wave.

Michael turns to Geoff, who is standing at the door now with his arms crossed. Michael’s panicking--students don’t just show up at their teachers’ apartments, unannounced and demanding dinner. If Ryan didn’t already know about them, he is probably quickly putting two and two together.

“Sorry to barge in--I just wanted to return a book I borrowed,” Michael says, quickly lying. “It’s, uh, good to see you Ryan?”

“Good to see you, too, Michael.”

“Where’s the book then,” Geoff says, being an asshole on purpose, calling his bluff.

“I forgot it downstairs. Why don’t you come down with me?” Michael says, trying hard not to grit his teeth.

“Yeah,” Geoff says, grabbing a coat. “Why don’t I. You hold down the fort, Ryan. I’ll be right back.”

They go far enough into the hallway to be out of earshot before Geoff starts ripping him a new one.

“What the fuck are you doing here on a weeknight?”

“Coming to see you because--” -- but Geoff interrupts him.

“You’re still in your goddamn uniform!”

“Well, I just--”

“We both have school tomorrow, Michael--you could’ve at least texted me!”

“I wanted to surprise you--”

“Trust me, I’m surprised.”

“I didn’t know you’d have someone over.”

“Right--there was no way for you to know because you didn’t goddamn text me.”

“Look, I didn’t think it through.”

“Do I need to give you a ride home? Did Ray drop you off?”

“Well if you’d quit fucking interrupting me for a second, I could tell you why I’m here.”

“I’m all ears,” Geoff says, flat.

“My parents got me a car for Christmas.”

Geoff’s expression softens.

“Holy shit,” Geoff says. “You drove here yourself?”

“Yeah. I’m parked outside.”

“Michael, that’s awesome,” Geoff says, smiling now. “Can I see it?”

“No, I’d rather stand here and pout about what a prick you are,” Michael says, crossing his arms.

“You started it,” Geoff says.

“Yeah, real mature.” Michael says, rolling his eyes. “How was I supposed to know someone was over? What is Haywood even _doing_ here? And you’re cooking him dinner?”

“I ran into him in the grocery store,” Geoff says.

“And you brought him home with you immediately?” Michael frowns.

“To be honest, he looked like he could use someone to talk to.”

“And you… brought him home with you. Immediately,” Michael says, still frowning.

“Shit Michael, I’m not gonna fuck him, calm down,” Geoff says, sounding irritated again. “I’m just going to feed him some ribs, talk about lit nerd shit, and send him on his merry way.”

“I want some ribs,” Michael says, pouting in earnest. “I want to talk about lit nerd shit.”

“And you’ll have both tomorrow,” Geoff says. “And you can drive me around in your new car. OK?”

Michael mulls it over.

“Did you tell him, Geoff--about us?”

Geoff thinks before answering Michael--never a good sign.

“Yeah,” Geoff says finally. “I did.”

“And he doesn’t think we’re fucked up?”

“Oh, he definitely thinks we’re fucked up,” Geoff says. “But he doesn’t think we should stop.”

“Thank Christ,” Michael says. “Please listen to him and set your asshole heart at ease for once.”

“I’m working on it dude,” Geoff sighs, bouncing on the balls of his feet, obviously antsy to get back to Ryan. Michael hasn’t seen him so animated but the surprise visit--and maybe talking to Ryan--has got Geoff a little goofy.

“Can I please see your car or do I have to wait until tomorrow?” Geoff says.

“Just wait on it,” Michael says. “Go take care of your guest. Let Haywood talk more sense into you.”

And at that, Geoff puts a hand on either side of Michael’s face and squishes his cheeks before kissing him, hard but chaste, on the lips.

“You’re extra adorable when you’re pissed off at me,” Geoff says.

“I’m a terrifying beast, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Get outta here.”

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

“This room seems extra sad now that all the other teachers have decorated for Christmas,” Gavin says on Friday.

Students are filing in and Geoff’s nowhere to be found so far.

“Geoff doesn’t seem like the decorating type,” Ray says.

“He sits in here all day though,” Gavin says. “And it still looks like it did on the first day.”

“I think he spent most of this semester just hoping he wouldn’t get fired,” Michael says. Gavin and Ray exchange glances and then look back to Michael, smiling.

“Well we should decorate for him,” Lindsay says, leaning in from the second row of desks.

“Yeah, Lindsay,” Gavin says, smiling at the idea. “We ought to.”

“Do you think he would give us permission?” Lindsay asks, dropping her voice conspiratorially.

“Probably not,” Michael says. “He’d probably be an asshole about it if we ask him.”

“We should do it anyway,” Gavin says.

“Hey, quick show of hands,” Ray says, turning to the other students who have already arrived. “If we were gonna decorate this godforsaken English classroom and surprise Mr. Ramsey, who would be willing to come in an hour early on Monday?”

The other students have already been eavesdropping and they’re nodding now.

“How are we going to get in early on Monday?” Michael asks, arms crossed.

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Michael,” Ray says, smiling.

“Exnay on the urprise-say,” Lindsay says, drawing a line across her neck with her finger and nodding towards the door.

Geoff has arrived.

\---

It had been a hell of a nice change talking to Ryan, and Geoff had completely lost track of time.

Beer bottles and rib bones stacked up, and they’d talked late into the night. They were linked in a way he’d never expected--both bound by their secrets, by Ray and Michael--and for the first time in a long time, Geoff hadn’t felt alone.

So when 3 a.m. rolled around, neither man had been entirely ready to say goodnight.

“We’ll do it again,” Ryan had said, shaking Geoff’s hand.

Geoff had pulled him into a tight hug and Ryan hadn't protested.

“Seriously, Ryan, we’ll do it, like, Monday if you don’t have other plans.”

“I doubt I’ll have much of anything to do until Ray decides to answer my calls,” Ryan had said.

After that they’d exchanged phone numbers and parted ways, Geoff falling immediately into bed, stopping only to strip off his belt and shoes.

Naturally he’s tired as hell as he walks into the classroom on Friday--but it had been worth it.

When Geoff strides in, the room goes quiet. Never a good sign in a high school classroom.

Yet, all of the students are smiling. Except for Michael.

The bell rings and Geoff sets his stuff down.

“OK, well, that’s not awkward,” Geoff says.

Nobody offers an explanation, so Geoff doesn’t ask for one.

\---

At the end of class, Geoff catches Michael’s eye, smiling. The man doesn’t even have to say anything--Michael just heads straight to his desk, Gavin hanging by the door for him.

He’s smiling, looking as usual as if he has some great secret he may or may not let Michael in on.

“Here’s the book you were asking about,” Geoff says, holding out a paperback. “I think you’ll enjoy it. Keep it as long as you want.”

“Thanks Mr. Ramsey,” Michael says, taking the book from him, smiling wide and playing along. He holds the book at his side. “So, about after school--”

“Right, don’t worry about it,” Geoff says, raising his eyebrows and looking down at the book he’d given Michael.

“OK, got it. See you next week,” he says loudly, turning to join Gavin.  

Michael flips through the book as they walk down the hall, Gavin distracted with something on his phone. An index card flutters out from one page and to the ground and Michael stoops quickly to pick it up.

“7:30--you drive.”

\---

Despite how tired he is, Geoff leaves school, locking his classroom behind him, and immediately starts running errands.

He heads to his barber first, getting his unruly hair under control. On a whim, he has the barber shave him clean except for his mustache.

Next, he heads to pick up dry cleaning--all of his jackets had started to get musty, and he’d been too scared to wash his good sweaters at the apartment complex for fear of shrinking them and losing every piece of warm clothing he had. He’d even gotten around to having his favorite leather jacket cleaned, and to his great pleasure, the thing no longer stinks like too many nights in a smoky bar.

Then it’s to Safeway. Geoff buys all of the necessities--but this time swinging down the soda aisle. He wonders what Ryan drinks and kicks himself for not asking. He buys a six pack of cola, a package of diet cola, and a package of ginger ale, just to be on the safe side.

At home, he unpacks the groceries, making a second trip down for his dry cleaning. He does a cursory clean of his apartment before setting out the clothes he’ll wear this evening. He goes to brush his teeth and stops in the mirror to admire his haircut, his facial hair.

Ryan is right, actually. He no longer looks like he’s on the verge of death like he did in October. Geoff can almost recognize himself again.

It’s 6 by the time he’s done with everything he’d planned--just long enough for a nap. He sets an alarm on his phone and collapses down onto the bed.

\---

Michael does his own housekeeping after school, taking a long shower, packing an overnight bag complete with schoolwork to do in case Geoff bugs him about it. But the afternoon and evening stretch on and on.

His parents eat dinner at 6 and he decides to join them, putting in some face time before he spends the weekend away.

He dodges questions about when he’ll visit another college in between bites of tough, dry steak. He only slips up once--when his dad catches him daydreaming about Geoff’s cooking--and Michael excuses himself, saying he’s preoccupied thinking about finals.

“When are your finals this year?” his mom asks.

“They start on the 15th,” Michael says. “So, like, a week from Monday.”

“Look, Michael,” his dad says seriously--and Michael’s stomach immediately drops from the tone in his father’s voice. “We don’t mind you going off this weekend with Ray. But the weekend before your finals, we want you here, buckling down.”

His mom nods gravely.

“Let’s not have a repeat of your midterm grades,” she says.

“Guys, I’m doing fine now,” Michael protests. “One weekend isn’t going to make a difference!”

“I seem to remember you pulling your grades up in about a week,” his dad says with a raised eyebrow. “I think one weekend might make a world of difference. And these grades count.”

“I’m going to go crazy if I have to stay here alone all weekend,” Michael says.

“Why don’t you have Ray come over here next weekend, then,” Michael’s mom suggests. “We don’t see enough of Ray anyway!”

“Great, fabulous,” Michael says, trying not to roll his eyes. He’d really backed himself into a corner with the Ray excuse. “It’s super quiet over at Ray’s though. It’s like… the perfect study place. His mom’s never home.”

“We’ll keep out of you boys’ hair,” his mom says, smiling. “I promise I won’t hover.”

“Great. Thanks, mom.”

\---

A few minutes after seven, Michael slams himself into the car, blasting the little Dodge’s AC and bouncing in his seat. His mind is a thrumming mantra of Geoff, Geoff, Geoff, Geoff and it isn’t unpleasant. As the heat kicks in, Michael feels warm and happy--maybe even a little bit manic--and it occurs to him to wonder if maybe this is what it feels like to be in love.

When he pulls up to the apartment, he’s about to park when he sees Geoff trotting out of the building. Something in Michael’s chest swells a little. Geoff must be as excited to see him as he is to see Geoff. Michael leans across the passenger seat to pop the door open and Geoff slides in.

Somehow, Geoff has undergone a complete transformation between school and 7:30 p.m., and Michael peers at him in the dim light. Not only are his hair and facial hair different than they were this morning, he’s wearing a sweater Michael doesn’t recognize and a leather jacket. He looks damn good. Michael’s almost got a hard-on just from the leather jacket alone. It’s an understated biker style--black but worn in to the point of almost being gray--the collar hanging loose across Geoff’s chest and the zipper and buttons worn to a dull pewter.

Dressed in the jacket with his tattoos and fresh haircut, Michael can’t decide if Geoff looks more like something out of an editorial photoshoot or a porno.

Geoff leans over the center console to kiss Michael on the cheek before buckling himself into the seat.

“You ok?” Geoff says.

“Uh, yeah,” Michael says. “I’m. I’m good.”

“What’s up?” Geoff says, frowning.

“You look, like. Really good,” Michael says.

Geoff snorts a laugh through his nose.

“Thank you, I think,” he says. “I needed a haircut. And the scruff was getting itchy.”

“Jesus Geoff. You didn’t warn me about you owning a leather jacket,” Michael says. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just, uh, go back up to your apartment?”

Geoff laughs.

“No, come on, let’s go to Spokane,” Geoff says. “I’ve been in my shitty apartment for what feels like a month.”

“This really isn’t fair,” Michael says, pouting. “What are we doing in Spokane?”

“We could go see a movie or shoot some pool,” Geoff says. “Your call.”

Michael pulls out of the parking lot, guiding his little car towards Spokane.

“What movie?”

“‘Retribution Reflex’ looks pretty terrible,” Geoff says. “I kind of really want to see it.”

“The new Bruce Willis movie?” Michael asks. Geoff nods. “For someone as smart as you are, you sure have shitty taste in movies.”

“Who doesn’t enjoy mental junk food?” Geoff says. Michael smiles. “So, sweet ride you got here.”

“Any ride is a sweet ride at this point,’ Michael says. “It runs great and it’s simple enough that I can fix just about anything that goes wrong with it, short of a major engine catastrophe.”

“I’m really happy for you Michael,” Geoff says, placing a hand on Michael’s knee. “This was an amazing gift for your parents to give you, out of the blue.”

Michael goes silent. The proximity to Geoff after such a long time is torture. The hand on his knee is almost painful. The whole situation is utterly unfair.

Michael attempts to make small talk as they pull out past the boundaries of Chewelah onto the long, cold highway that leads to Spokane.

\---

Ten minutes outside of town, Michael slows almost to a stop on 395 and guides them off the road.

“What’s going on?” Geoff asks. There’s nothing but blackness, trees, and a small green sign indicating “Bulldog Creek.”

“We’re stopping,” Michael says, not looking at Geoff.

“Here? Why?”

Michael doesn’t answer. He’s guiding the car down a hard-packed dirt path under the overpass. The path is almost invisible, winding between trees. When they’re tucked under the overpass, shielded by a line of trees, Michael stops the car and puts it in park, setting the emergency brake but leaving the engine running, the heat still basting out of the air conditioner.

“Michael, what--” --but before Geoff can say anything, Michael is unbuckling his seat belt and scrambling over the center console. Geoff dissolves into laughter as Michael falls into his lap. “What the fuck, Michael?”

“What the fuck yourself,” Michael says, grabbing him by the front of his jacket, pulling on him and wiping the smile off his face with a deep kiss. Michael is warm and light in his lap. It’s the first kiss they’ve shared in 20 days.

Geoff is struck by deja vu. The kiss gives him the same feeling as jumping into a crystal clear spring in the middle of Alabama’s summer heat. You’d swing from a rope--your stomach catapulting into your throat--before exploding into the frigid blue water, a wonderful relief but a crushing intense cold that makes your muscles quiver, your lungs gasp.

It’s all Geoff can do to hang on through the kiss, clutching at Michael, barely breathing.

Michael pulls off after a minute, still leaning into Geoff--not that he has much of a choice in the confined space of the passenger seat.

“OK, you’ve convinced me,” Geoff says. “Let’s go back.”

“Fuck going back, fuck you and fuck your stupid leather jacket,” Michael says. He kisses Geoff again before he can protest, reaching down between their bodies to unbuckle Geoff’s belt. Geoff breaks the kiss this time.

“Jesus, Michael, in the car?”

“If you didn’t want to fuck in the car, you shouldn’t have showed up looking like this,” Michael says, working hard to get his hands down Geoff’s pants. “I’m only goddamn human, Geoff.”

Geoff is already hard, and he groans into Michael’s neck as the boy touches him, but the position makes it almost impossible for Michael to do more than palm his erection through his jeans.

Michael leans into Geoff, kissing him for a moment before breaking off.

“This isn’t gonna work,” Geoff says.

“Get in the back seat and tell me it won’t work,” Michael says before pushing himself head-first over the center console and tumbling into the back seat. Geoff laughs again. Michael is goddamn ridiculous. And it feels so good to be with him again.

Geoff unbuckles his seatbelt and, one hand on the waistband of his jeans, he gets out of the car and back into the back seat. Michael is kicking off his shoes.

“Get in the middle,” Michael says brusquely. Geoff obeys, scooting to the middle of the back seat. “Get those down,” Michael orders, gesturing at Geoff’s jeans.

“You’re a real romantic, kid,” Geoff says, shimmying the jeans off of his hips, thankful for the Dodge’s capable heater in the cold night.

“There’s no time for romance when there’s this much logistics involved,” Michael says. His pants are completely off--boxers still in place--and he’s digging in his backpack. Geoff strokes the planes of his lower back, smiling. It’s absurd, but he does want Michael, isn’t willing to wait for the twenty minute drive back to Chewelah either. Finally Michael produces a small bottle--lube, Geoff realizes--and turns back to him.

“Were you planning this?” Geoff says, an eyebrow raised.

“No, but I don’t fuck around with being unprepared,” Michael says. He presses the bottle into Geoff’s hand. “Please Geoff.”

Geoff takes the bottle and sets it beside him on the back seat. There’s a question on Michael’s face, and in answer, Geoff hooks his hands into Michael’s boxers, dragging them down and grabbing Michael by the naked hips to guide him back to his lap. The close quarters make it difficult for anything to be graceful or sexy, and Michael seems suddenly young, inelegantly straddling Geoff.

Michael leans into him, one hand grabbing the small bottle, depositing a bit into his free hand and working it around to slick a finger. Michael kisses along Geoff’s ear and Geoff hears his breath hitch as Michael eases himself open.

Geoff hadn’t planned on going straight for sex, but it’s impossible not to go from zero to sixty with Michael pushing the pace like this, panting, insistent and so fucking lovely in the low light.

“Jesus Christ, Michael,” Geoff says. He reaches up to push open Michael’s jacket, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt, and he nuzzles into Michael’s chest to suck against the pale skin there. Michael’s head is back as he works away, bouncing a little now on his own finger, against Geoff’s lap. Geoff kisses up and down his neck before retrieving the bottle, slicking his own fingers, and Michael hums in anticipation, nodding when Geoff looks to him. Michael brings his hand forward, wiping it onto a piece of discarded clothing.

“Please Geoff,” Michael says again, leaning forward on his knees to press against Geoff’s chest, grinding his cock against Geoff’s hips. Geoff strains to reach behind him, and he presses into Michael gently. He can’t get traction at the odd angle, and Michael moves to straddle one of his knees, giving Geoff more arm to work with in the strange quarters. Geoff pushes in deeper now, and Michael moans.

“Jesus, Geoff,” he says. “You don’t know how bad I needed this. Fuck.”

He’s pushing against Geoff’s hand now, already pliant, demanding. Geoff withdraws the finger, pushing in two now, and Michael’s breath catches hard in his throat.

“You ok?” he asks. Michael’s eyes are far away with lust and he nods. Geoff knows it hurt--that they’re pushing the limits of what Michael can handle--but it’s hard not to with Michael bucking down onto him. He’s so goddamn tight and warm. Geoff is straining at the fabric of his boxers.

After a rushed few minutes of Michael working down onto his hand, Michael starts to move and Geoff pulls his hand away. Michael hooks the waistband of Geoff’s boxer briefs and drags them down past his thighs, his thick cock bouncing free in the dim light.

“You took the ring out?” Michael says.

“Just for tonight,” Geoff says, a hand drifting down to stroke his own hardon lightly. “I worry about your teeth sometimes.”

Michael huffs a laugh at that before burying his face in Geoff’s lap. Michael swallows down around him, warm and wet, an impossible combination of sweet stimulation. It’s almost too much at once and it takes all Geoff has not to buck into Michael’s velvet, tight throat. Michael hums around him for a few strokes before he’s up again, kissing Geoff, moving fast again to straddle Geoff’s hips. He sits back almost to Geoff’s knees, coating him hastily with lube before shimmying forward.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Geoff says, genuine concern overriding arousal.

“Just go slow,” Michael says, their foreheads pressed together.

Before he can ask again, Michael’s hand is at the base of his cock, and Michael is lowering himself down. The tightness would be almost painful if it didn’t feel so incredibly fucking good.

“Jesus, Michael.”

Michael’s hiding strain on his face, but he’s smiling.

\---

Geoff feels impossibly big, but Michael knows it’s only for lack of thorough preparation.

He doesn’t care.

He needs Geoff--sooner rather than later.

And his body takes it, adjusting to each inch of Geoff as Michael sinks himself at a measured pace. It would hurt if he didn’t need it so fucking badly. His tightness has reduced Geoff to incoherent moaning and Michael drinks it in, leaning heavily on the man, taking his time, enjoying hearing Geoff panting out his name, feeling him flutter absentminded strokes up and down his hips.

“It’s so fucking good, Michael, Jesus.”

When he finally reaches full depth, the two of them sit still for a moment, breathing.

“You’re ok?” Geoff asks, his eyes heavy-hooded, his brows knit together in concern.

“Fucking amazingly ok,” Michael says, realizing that he’s breathing hard. “Way better than ok.”

He lets his head rest on Geoff’s shoulder, and Geoff reaches a hand up to stroke through Michael’s hair.

“You’re incredible, Michael, you know that?” Geoff says into his neck. “Jesus I missed this. I missed you.”

“I didn’t miss you at all,” Michael says, beginning to slowly rock in Geoff’s lap. “I didn’t miss your stupid mustache and your stupid tattoos.” He leans back and Geoff is looking at him with a crooked smile as he rocks his hips. “I didn’t miss your asshole smile or your stupid big, pierced dick.”

\---

Smiling, Geoff grabs Michael by the hips and grinds deeper into him. Michael’s breath hitches but he doesn’t seem uncomfortable anymore.

“I knew you wouldn't,” Geoff says. “That’s why I didn’t think about fucking you.”

“No?” Michael says, his pace slow and deliberate.

“Not at all,” Geoff says, staying still, letting Michael find his own rhythm and enjoying every minute of it. He rakes his hands up under Michael’s shirt, appreciating the warm, soft skin there.

“Didn’t think about it alone,” Geoff continues. “Didn’t come into my own hand thinking about it every day.”

Michael’s smiling, pleased that Geoff is willing to play along with the game.

“Didn’t think about it while I was driving, or cooking,” Geoff says, and Michael rewards him with a slow stroke.

The next words tumble out of his mouth before he can think about them:

“Definitely didn’t think about fucking you while I was teaching English.”

\---

Michael knows that any mention of the classroom is a taboo for Geoff, and hearing him talk about it while he’s buried deep in Michael is somehow infinitely more gratifying than any dirty talk ever could be. Michael can’t help but to moan--loud--at it.

“Fuck, Geoff,” he says, moving steadier now, his arousal intensified.

Geoff obviously notices, a calculation going on behind his blue eyes as Michael rides him faster now.

“It’s hard to stick to the lesson plan,” Geoff continues, his hands on Michael’s hips again, “ when you want to fuck the kid in the first row.”

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s almost enough to make Michael come already--hearing Geoff say the shit he'd fantasized about for months now.

“I’d love nothing more than to bend you over that desk,” Geoff says, rocking his hips up and off of the back seat to meet Michael’s strokes. “Grab your hips and fuck you as hard as you want.”

“Jesus Geoff, I think about it every day,” Michael chokes out. “Sucking you off under that fucking desk.”

It’s Geoff’s turn to moan and pant.

They go silent for a few beats, simply pleasing each other, their hands roaming. Michael’s hands find purchase on the collar of Geoff’s jacket, and he digs his knees into the fabric of the back seat as he quickens the pace.

“God Geoff,” he says, heaving deep breaths between strokes. “I’ve wanted to ride you like this for a long time.”

Geoff’s hand finds Michael’s neglected cock now, warm and slippery. Apparently he’d used his one-handed lube skills again and Michael had been too preoccupied to notice. He bucks into Geoff’s hand, leaning and pulling on the jacket, and Geoff keeps the pace, rocking up into Michael.

“You look so good when you’re fucking me,” Geoff says, his voice gone low and guttural.

It’s the release and the comfort Michael’s needed for so long, for twenty goddamn days, pining away for time with Geoff, to be close to Geoff, and with the man’s hand on him, with the man buried in him, Michael’s orgasm builds impossibly fast in the base of his body.

“I’m gonna come so fast, Geoff,” Michael says into Geoff’s neck. “It’s too good.”

“Right there with you,” Geoff says, guttural. “Fuck.”

He starts to jack Michael off quicker, bucking his hips up into him.

“I want you to come, Michael,” he says, barely more than a hoarse whisper.

“Fuck--Geoff--Jesus.” He’s barely choking the words out now, his muscles starting to go weird with overstimulation, his hips wanting to drive down onto Geoff’s cock while also wanting to thrust forward into the other man’s grip, and every sense but touch goes dull as Michael begins the crashing descent into orgasm.

\---

Geoff’s name is spilling out of Michael’s mouth as his movements sputter with orgasm--and Geoff’s name has never sounded so sweet to his own ears as it does there with Michael coming into his hand.

Geoff loses himself in the moment, loses himself into Michael, as the boy’s muscles spasm and twitch around him, his rhythm broken but no less pleasant, and dropping his hand from Michael’s spent erection, Geoff grabs Michael by the pale hips as he comes hard into him, his head rolling backwards, suddenly too heavy, his mind too weak to process anything but the pleasure exploding from every angle--from his hips, his balls, the back of his throat, his fingertips--the world going blank and loud with the sounds of their panting, the feeling of his final strokes into Michael.

“Fuck, ow,” Michael says abruptly, and it shakes Geoff out of his post-coital haze.

“Shit, you ok, Michael?”

The boy is smiling and rubbing the top of his head.

“Yeah, you just fucked me into the ceiling is all,” he says, laughing weakly.

Geoff tries to frown over his own laugh but he can’t keep it inside and he laughs hard at the situation, at the absurdity of it all, still inside Michael--who is laughing now too.

“I think we’re gonna miss the movie,” Michael says, gently pushing himself up and off of Geoff’s lap.

“It’s just as well,” Geoff says, gesturing to his sweater, the pattern of Michael’s orgasm snaking across his belly in a dark stain on the fabric. “Just got this shit dry cleaned, too.”

Michael laughs harder.

“Sorry Geoff,” he says, wiping his eyes hard. “Um. I’m sure I have something you can wear home.”

\---

They get as cleaned up as much as two guys who just fucked in the back of a Dodge Neon can. Michael fishes out the largest t-shirt he can find from his stuff and passes it to Geoff.

Despite being his biggest shirt, it’s still ridiculously small on Geoff.

“Is this a girl’s shirt?” Geoff says, pulling the fabric taut down his chest.

“Fuck you dude,” Michael says.

“I think this is a good look on me, actually,” Geoff says, putting the leather jacket on over the shirt. The shirt leaves a two-inch gap of belly skin exposed over his waistband.

“Yeah you could probably make a killing at a truck stop,” Michael says, frowning.

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

When they get back to Geoff’s apartment, Michael is ready to tumble into bed without dinner--but Geoff insists on it.

Michael’s entire body feels like jelly. Once they’re tucked into the warm apartment, Geoff switching on lights and hurrying around to start on dinner, Michael kicks off his shoes and collapses down onto the mattress.

“I feel like my entire _being_ had an orgasm,” Michael says, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to be away from you for that long ever fucking again.”

From the kitchen, Geoff puffs a breath through his nose but doesn’t say anything and Michael is immediately self conscious about his own statement.

Geoff is clattering pans, heating the oven.

\---

The ribs, in the end, are entirely worth staying up for.

It’s the best barbeque Michael’s ever had, restaurants included, and he quizzes Geoff immediately about how he could achieve such perfection with an oven.

Halfway through the meal, Geoff goes to the kitchen, grabbing himself a beer.

“Do you want a soda or something?”

“You bought soda? You don’t drink soda,” Michael says.

“They’re for Ryan--he doesn’t drink booze apparently and I felt bad pouring him glass after glass of water.”

“You never felt bad giving me water,” Michael says, not quite pouting but not far from it.

Geoff straightens up to peer at him over the fridge door.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I guess I never asked what you’d prefer to drink.”

“You could pour me a beer too,” Michael ventures, brightly.

“How about no,” Geoff says. “I have cokes, diet cokes, ginger ale…”

“Fine,” Michael says. “A coke, please.”

Geoff returns, sitting cross legged at the makeshift table.

“So Ryan coming over--you’re hoping to make that a regular thing?” Michael asks.

“Yeah,” Geoff says, nonchalant. “It was nice to have someone to have dinner with.”

Michael frowns.

“Someone, uh, other than you--”

Michael frowns deeper.

“I mean--because you can’t always be over--someone to talk to about, uh, English--”

Michael knits his brows together.

“So you’ll be off limits weeknights now, entertaining Ryan?”

“No, not at all,” Geoff says, backtracking. “I mean, some nights, I guess?”

\---

Michael is rolling his eyes and Geoff realizes that he’s digging himself into a deeper pit.

He hadn’t pinned Michael as being the jealous type. A gross miscalculation.

“Michael, come on,” Geoff says, pleading. “Weekends are yours--you know that.”

“Yeah, well, about that,” Michael says, almost spitting the words. “Right before I came over my parents informed me that I’ll be imprisoned next weekend.”

“Are you in trouble?” Geoff tries to hide the fact that his heart is in his throat.

“No, they just want to make sure I study for my finals.”

“Ah,” Geoff says. “I guess that’s not such a bad thing.”

“What the fuck,” Michael says, frowning. “You don’t trust me to study either?”

“Michael. I remember what it was like to be a student,” Geoff says. “And I also remember what it was like to want to spend _all_ of my time with someone, no matter the cost.”

“And what the fuck does that mean?”

“It means that I trust you, but I don’t trust your… lovely little heart--or any of your other body parts--to study properly in our current…” Geoff grasps for words. “Situation.”

Michael has abandoned the meal, openly pouting, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“What about the weekend after finals?” Geoff says, an idea bubbling in the bottom of his brain. “We’ll both be on break, and you won’t be leaving for Jersey until closer to Christmas, right?”

“Yeah,” Michael says.

“So why don’t I make it up to you?”

“I don’t know,” Michael says. “My parents want me to visit more schools. They didn’t say when, specifically, but it doesn’t look like there will be another weekend to do it before it’s time to start sending applications out.”

“So we’ll go visit a school,” Geoff says. “We’ll hit the road together. A real vacation.”

Michael examines him warily.

“Seriously Geoff?”

“If you can talk your parents into it, or come up with a valid excuse. Seriously.”

Michael’s fighting a smile.

“You’re still an asshole,” Michael says.

“I never claimed otherwise.”

“Fair enough.”

\---

Later on, with Michael snoring softly under his arm, Geoff mentally retraces his steps. He wonders, idly, if there will ever be a time when he can keep a level head around Michael--if there will ever come a day when he’s not constantly clarifying and backtracking.

And yet at every turn, there is Michael: accepting him in spite of the ever-present foot in his mouth.

It’s a nice feeling.

\---

Geoff wakes up before Michael on Saturday. He watches the boy sleeping for a moment, but the sensation that wells in his chest is like too-cold water, and after a moment Geoff lets his eyes wander. He strokes a hand through Michael’s hair, waking him in slow stages.

“Hm,” Michael says, eyes fluttering open for just a moment. “Morning.”

His voice is thick with sleep. His skin is almost translucent in the morning light.

“How did such a gorgeous thing end up here with me?” Geoff says gently.

“M’car,” Michael says, not opening his eyes. “Got it for Christmas. That’s how.”

Geoff laughs through his nose. He scoots towards Michael, reaching out and pulling him easily under the covers to meet his body in the middle of the bed. Michael groans and flips over, stretching his muscles and pretending to be annoyed.

“Can we go to that diner again?” Michael asks in between stretching. “That corned beef hash… it haunts my dreams.”

“Of course,” Geoff says. “I’m yours today.”

“Longer than that I hope,” Michael says.

Every time Michael does it--talks about the future--Geoff forces himself back from the situation for a moment. It’s not that he’s scared, or that he doesn’t want to commit to Michael. The whole relationship just seems so tenuous--like something that might collapse if you try to define it--despite the fact that he loves Michael, that he’s becoming more and more comfortable admitting it to himself.

He’s aware of the pregnant pause. Geoff pulls Michael back, pressing himself into the other man.

“As long as you want me,” Geoff says.

He buries his face in the hair on top of Michael’s head.

\---

Breakfast gives Geoff renewed confidence. Michael drove them and Geoff had taken a quiet survey of the back seat to make sure they’d left nothing incriminating.

“The weeks without you really were hell, Michael,” Geoff admits around a mouthful of breakfast.

“Yeah, no shit,” Michael shoots back. “And you didn’t even have to be around my cousins.”

Geoff laughs, remembering the videos. They’re still saved to his phone.

“You know, Geoff, I’m not trying to pry. But why didn’t you go home for Thanksgiving?”

Geoff had been waiting for the question--not wanting it but knowing that eventually it would come. He stares at his own reflection in the cup of black coffee.

“Hm,” Geoff says, contemplating how to answer. He doesn’t want to unload his family history on Michael this morning. He really wants them to have a good day together, far from the types of things that Geoff spends his waking hours avoiding. “That’s complicated,” he says finally.

“Guess I should’ve known you wouldn’t want to talk about it since you never brought it up,”

Michael says, flushing deep pink. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Michael, it’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” Geoff says, looking up. “But let’s have the conversation another day. I want to enjoy our time together while we have it.”

“Fair enough,” Michael says.

“What do you want to do today?” Geoff asks, ready to steer the conversation in a new direction.

Michael looks down and rubs the back of his neck. Geoff’s not sure what’s wrong, so he barrels forward.

“I can look up more movie times and we can go do that--or see something else if you want--or we can find a place with a pool table. Or we could go back to see the dam, now that I’m not completely distracted with hating myself. Or we could go to Spokane and just walk around. You could drive us through the countryside, or--”

“Geoff, _Geoff_ ,” Michael interrupts him. “You realize you don’t have to, like, entertain me every moment we’re together, right?”

“Hm.” The point takes Geoff off guard. “I’m sorry. I, uh. Overthink things, obviously.”

“I know--and god, it’s sweet,” Michael says, finally smiling. “But seriously. I’m content to just sit in your apartment.”

“I find it hard to believe that’s any fun for you.”

“I would sit still and listen to you read the fucking phone book, Geoff,” Michael says. “And be happy about it.”

Geoff rolls his eyes.

“And I’d come back for more--every weekend I’m allowed.”

\---

They find a grocery store in Kettle Falls before heading back to Chewelah.

It’s already thrumming with activity on the late Saturday morning, Christmas music piping in behind the background noise.

Michael hasn’t been able to tag along on any of Geoff’s grocery store trips. They couldn’t risk running into classmates--or worse, Michael’s mom--at the Safeway they all frequented. So he’s taken aback, watching Geoff virtually transform the moment he steps behind a shopping cart.

When Michael is sent on errands to the store, he wanders a lot. He loops up and down the aisles, looking to see whatever catches his eye that day, following the flow of the grocery store and usually leaving with a bunch of junk food and no real plan.

Geoff is the opposite.

He makes a beeline for the meat department, striding forward with purpose and not bothering to make sure Michael is keeping up with him. Wordlessly, he arrives and begins a scan of the racks of shrinkwrapped meat.

He hasn’t discussed any of it with Michael, and the younger man has no idea whether or not Geoff has a plan in mind. But he watches some silent calculation go on as Geoff picks out a package of steaks, turning it this way and that before apparently rejecting it and putting it back on the shelf. He moves on to the pork section, flipping over slender tenderloins, pressing a finger into roasts.

After a moment of digging, he pulls out a large hunk of pink pork and lowers it into the cart. Michael has no idea of the cut and there’s no time to ask--Geoff has already turned to speedwalk towards the produce.

By the time Michael catches up, Geoff is tossing items into the cart. A leek, two types of onions, a knuckle of ginger, garlic, mushrooms.

“I need one more stop after this,” he says, turning to Michael. He looks like someone coming out of a trance. “Uh, sorry. Do you need anything while we’re here? You want something else to drink at the apartment?”

\---

When they get closer to Chewelah, Geoff has him make a final stop, directing him down a road he didn’t know existed into the parking lot of the Hung Thinh Supermarket.

“The hell is this?” Michael asks. “I’ve never noticed this place.”

“Vietnamese supermarket,” Geoff says, as if it ought to have been obvious, as if every small town in Washington has one. “I’ll only be a sec.”

Geoff is out of the car and gone before Michael can follow him, returning in under five minutes with a paper bag.

“OK,” he says, settling back into the car with no explanation. “Let’s jam.”

\---

They’re back to the apartment by noon, Michael walking into the room in front of Geoff and kicking off his shoes, throwing himself down onto the bed.

Geoff smiles, flush suddenly with affection.

It looks like a movement Michael’s made a hundred times or more, the habit of someone totally at home in a space despite the fact that he’s only been in the apartment a handful of times.

Geoff could certainly stand for it to become a habit.

From the bed, Michael pulls his backpack across the floor towards him, unzipping it and pulling out a few books.

“Hey, what about this book you handed me the other day?” Michael says, gesturing to Geoff in the kitchen with a paperback. “It any good?”

“The Secret History?” Geoff says, recognizing the cover. “I didn’t realize that’s even what I gave you. But yeah, it’s great. You might like it.”

“Hm,” Michael says, flopping back onto the bed. “You mind if I borrow it for read then?”

“Of course not,” Geoff says. “Duh, dude.”

Geoff begins to unpack groceries while Michael reads silently. He’s going to make a pork ramen for them, his palate already awake and anticipating the tangy and savory smells that will soon fill the apartment. Geoff works away, parsing through the recipe in his mind, appreciating the warm, silent presence of another human in his apartment.

Michael is only silent for a few pages though, and he breaks their reverie.

“Wait, ok, so,” Michael says.

“Yeah?”

“This author kills a main character in the first fucking paragraph. In the first sentence.”

Geoff puffs a soft laugh through his nose.

“It’s brilliant, right?” Geoff says.

“The fuck… how is this even going to be good then? You know the guy dies from page one. His friends kill him!”

“That’s what makes it so good,” Geoff says, washing a leek. “It lets the story be about his death but about everything else, too.”

Michael mulls that over for a moment.

“But I mean, it’s like… the cat’s out of the bag,” Michael says, still wanting to protest. “How is there going to be any tension when you already know what happens?”

“It’s a story about people going to college,” Geoff says. “Aren’t you curious how they arrive at a point where they’re hiding their friend’s dead body?”

“Good point,” Michael says.

“Plus, it’s about so much more than that. You’ll see--just read it.”

\---

Geoff chops and preps, humming softly to himself. Michael has contorted himself into fifty different shapes while reading the book a few feet away, flopping from his back to his belly, from his belly to his side, from his side to sitting cross legged. Geoff can’t help but smile, wondering how the kid ever made it through East of Eden, realizing that he must have changed positions eight thousand times over the course of that narrative.

He finally reaches a stopping point with his preparations, the pork simmering low on his stove, and he crosses the room to sit in his armchair.

Michael, who is back to his belly, looks up from the book.

“I think I get it now,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“You start with this… sort of disorienting bang about Bunny and how they hide his body. But the interesting part is piecing together how they get there.”

“Exactly,” Geoff says, nodding.

“The narrator reminds me of the Gatsby guy, uh,” Michael says, searching his memory.

“Nick Carraway?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, and as the momentum of his thoughts grow, he pushes himself up into a sitting position, smiling. “He’s like Nick Carraway. On the periphery of everything.”

“He is,” Geoff says. “The other characters call him out on it later on. You’ll see.”

“It’s such an interesting way to do it,” Michael says. “Tell a story, I mean. A first person narrator who doesn’t see himself as the main character in his own story.”

\---

Geoff gives him a crooked smile and goes silent.

Michael waits patiently for a minute, assuming the man will pick up his end of the conversation. But he just sits there.

“What? What did I say?” Michael asks.

“I don’t know,” Geoff lies, still half-smiling. “You just get me thinking sometimes. Sorry.”

“It’s how you view yourself, isn’t it,” Michael ventures. “Watching. Narrating from the periphery. Never the main character, right?”

Geoff looks at Michael then, slack jawed.

“That’s… exactly what I was thinking,” Geoff admits. “Seemed too self absorbed to say out loud, I guess.”

There’s a long pause.

“I can already tell you’re about to do that zoning out thing,” Michael says, rolling his eyes and flipping to his back to get more comfortable. “Let me know when you want to be a normal human again.”

“I’m sorry Michael I--”

“No, seriously,” Michael says, interrupting whatever lame apology he knows is coming. “I’m not mad. This book is good. I’m happy to be here. Don’t worry about it. Do your thing. Think your profound thoughts or whatever.”

Geoff chuckles and shakes his head, but doesn’t try to protest.

\---

Michael _does_ make him think, and even though the other man has given him permission to sit with his thoughts, he’s heavily aware of the fact that half the time he can’t keep up his part of the conversation.

He’s thinking about narratives now--the complicated ways that they break and form, whether in books or in real life. What would their narrative look like, the two of them? Geoff realizes he’s been planning on a tragicomedy the entire time, and tries not to dwell on the thought.

The poem he wrote over the Thanksgiving break bubbles to the surface of his memory. He’d like to fish it out of the desk drawer behind him, but he knows that Michael will ask what it is.

He can only half remember it now, but he composes and adds a few lines in his head.

Maybe he won’t abandon it completely.

After a few moments in silence, Michael flips to his side, a fist under his chin.

“You know Geoff,” he says. “For what it’s worth? I think you’d make a good main character.”

For a moment, Geoff can barely remember what Michael is referring to, and when it occurs to him, Geoff can’t help but laugh.

“Thanks, I think.”

“Do you mind if I take a shower?” Michael asks, marking his page and closing the book.

“Of course not,” Geoff says. “Let me get you a towel.”

“I know where they are, dummy,” Michael says. “I can get it.”

Geoff waits until he hears the shower crank on before he turns to fish the poem out of the desk.

He doesn’t hate the poem as much as he thought he would. It’s a little juvenile, but who cares. Geoff has never claimed to be a poet, anyway. He smiles down at the work, knowing it’s nothing profound but remembering in that moment the visceral impulse he had felt to pour out more of his feelings, to grasp for words that might somehow communicate the depth of what Michael had come to mean to him.

He can hear Michael humming from the shower, and for a moment, he allows himself to think of a future without guilt and restriction, a future past high school.

A time when hearing Michael in his shower wouldn’t be a special privilege but an everyday occurrence. A reality where Michael is so used to Geoff cooking dinner that he easily takes it for granted. A place where they could be utterly normal in public without looking over their shoulders.

The calm fantasy is struck through with a question: would Geoff still be what Michael wanted, if it comes to that?

He shakes the question off.

Geoff scrawls down the few lines that had been pressing into the periphery of his mind before pushing away from the desk, standing and padding towards the bathroom door.

\---

Michael hums a Zombies song to himself, low and sweet, enjoying the steaming water of the shower.

He loves Geoff’s apartment--how could he not?--but the silence could get deafening sometimes. Especially when Geoff started thinking hard about something. Michael had sat there listening to his own breath as long as he could take it before realizing that a shower might put him more at ease.

Heaven knows he needed one after the session in the car last night.

Michael damns himself quietly for remembering it, the fresh memories parading through his mind and stirring something low within him.

Would it be weird to jerk off in Geoff’s shower?  
It would be weird.

Yeah, he decides. It would be really fucking weird.

Although, he thinks, who could blame him? Twenty days without contact. Could he really be blamed for the fact that hurried fucking in a car wasn’t enough to satisfy him for long?

He almost falls disastrously when he hears Geoff clear his throat, close outside the shower curtain--and although he hadn’t touched himself, he still feels like he’s been caught in the act.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ Geoff,” he says, breathless. “Don’t you fucking knock?”

Michael moves to the back of the tub, opening the shower curtain a few inches and peering out in time to see a half-naked Geoff move on to unbuckle his jeans. His clothes are in a pile on the floor next to Michael’s.

“Oh,” Michael says.

“Thought you might like someone to scrub your back,” Geoff says, jeans, boxers, and belt hitting the floor. Geoff is half hard and Michael is lightyears past him already. Geoff reaches up to open the shower curtain dramatically before stepping in behind Michael.

“Come on, you’re letting out all the steam,” Michael whines.

“Wow, ungrateful,” Geoff scolds, pulling the curtain closed behind him. “I can let you shower by yourself if you’d prefer.”

“Shut up,” Michael says as Geoff’s hands reach his hips.

\---

When Michael spins to face him, he’s already hard and Geoff pulls the shorter man to him, closing the distance between their bodies.

“Got started without me?”

“I mean,” Michael says, “I wasn’t about to jerk off in your shower, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Geoff chuckles low.

“Christ,” Geoff says. “Gotta say I’m surprised you’d want to get off without me.”

“I wouldn’t expect someone as ancient as you’re always saying you are to be able to keep up with me,” Michael spits back without missing a beat.

“Just watch me,” Geoff says.

Despite their sniping and jockeying, when Geoff pulls Michael into a kiss, it is sweet and unhurried. Slowly Geoff spins them around so that he can get soaked by the pounding, hot water, and when he breaks the kiss, he reaches for a bottle of shampoo.

“Wait, you’re actually taking a shower?”

“Might as well while I’m here, right?” Geoff says, quickly lathering his hair.

“You’re… completely fucking impossible,” Michael says, frowning.

“Jesus, I think you’ll survive,” Geoff says, his eyes rolling. But, mercifully, as he works shampoo through his hair with one hand, he reaches down to stroke Michael with the other. “I can multitask, ok?”

Michael sighs and steadies himself against the tiled wall of the shower.

“Sure,” Michael says slowly, his eyes closing as he leans into the touch. “Multitask is one word for it.”

Geoff chuckles deep in his chest, appreciating the look on Michael’s face, his pale skin flushed under the steaming water. He’s shining and especially beautiful, even with his ruddy brown locks plastered dark to his head.

\---

Michael is only too happy to let himself be handled, trying hard to remember to stand up and still and not slip and break his neck in the tub. He hums as Geoff strokes him lightly, feeling warm from the bottoms of his feet to the top of his head.

After a moment, Geoff steps close to him, his other hand resting on Michael’s hip. Michael stands up again, stepping away from the wall he’d been leaning against, and he lets Geoff pull him back, presses his back up against Geoff.

True to his word, then, Geoff does start to work a fragrant soap across Michael’s back. His hands work across the muscles, fingertips pressing into the firm spots across his shoulders, kneading the muscles and joints.

“Jesus, that’s amazing,” Michael says. “Can I hire you to come do this before my finals?”

“Maybe when you’re in college,” Geoff says through a smile.

“I can just see explaining that to the other guys in the dorm,” Michael says. “‘Who’s that tattooed dude who always follows you into the shower, bro?’” he continues in an exaggerated jock voice. “‘Bro, he’s my masseuse.’”

“No homo,” Geoff says, continuing the joke.

“Totally no homo!” Michael says, grinding back against Geoff’s erection.

“‘You know, we just fuck all the time, like dudes do,’” Geoff says--and Michael laughs hard at that, happy for once that Geoff is willing to joke along with him.

“‘Yeah bro, you don’t do that with your bros?’” Michael says. “‘We just have deep conversations about literature and read poetry to each other like dudes do, you know?’”

They’re both laughing now, Geoff giving up on the massage and steadying himself against Michael's shoulders, laughing from his belly.

\---

It’s stupid and Geoff can’t stop smiling and when Michael turns to kiss him again in the shower, he almost lets it slip: “I fucking love you, Michael.”

Instead, he channels the impulse into the erotic flow of the moment, reaching down to play with Michael, stooping and reaching behind the other man after a moment to tease him open. The joke is gone and Michael groans into his shoulder.

After a moment, Michael turns, pressing himself against the shower wall to allow Geoff better access. Geoff brings his body to Michael’s back happily, his slicked fingers finding Michael’s entrance, teasing him slowly. He kisses Michael’s shoulders, his neck as he works the boy open, enjoying the sounds Michael makes against the wall.

\---

When Michael’s fingers and toes start to prune and he can no longer take the teasing of their wet bodies sliding together in the shower, Michael finally suggests that they get out.

Geoff gets out first, patting himself dry before retrieving the second towel. As Michael steps out of the hot shower, Geoff wraps him in the oversized towel. His first instinct is to balk at the attention, to take the towel and dry himself off--but the warm look on Geoff’s face convinces Michael to allow himself to be babied. He lets Geoff dry him off gently. But when the other man reaches his hair, Geoff starts to scrub hard, whipping the towel around him.

“Hey, hey,” Michael protests from inside the towel. “Stop the bullying, Christ.”

They fall into bed, the dying afternoon light streaming into the room.

\---

The romp in the car had been wonderful, but Geoff is happy for the luxury of the bed today as Michael lays back, scrubbed pink and smiling at him. He covers the smaller man’s body with his own, kissing him deeply now and allowing some of his weight to press down against Michael’s hips. Michael moans softly at the contact, not breaking the kiss and gently reaching up to stroke down Geoff’s ribs.

When they break the kiss, Michael is smiling.

“What?” Geoff says, having the immediate impression that Michael is holding something back.

“I never thought I’d have something this good,” Michael admits through the grin.

“Me neither, Michael,” Geoff says, gently.

And before Geoff can turn the moment bittersweet, Michael has caught his mouth again, kissing into him slowly and sweetly.

\---

Geoff breaks the kiss and he moves to take his place between Michael’s knees. Michael can’t help but to breathe harder in anticipation, already imagining the other man’s talented tongue, the warm pressure of his tongue ring.

And Geoff does not disappoint, taking Michael in his mouth and humming around him, alternately pressing and rolling the hard ball of the piercing into all of the sensitive places he can find. After a moment, Geoff’s large hands find his hips, pressing him into the bed as he pulls off and licks long stripes up Michael’s thighs. Michael is already relaxed and receptive when Geoff presses a thick finger, slicked with saliva, into Michael as he sucks a pink mark into the softest part of Michael’s thigh. He moans out Geoff’s name in spite of himself and throws a hand behind his head, searching for the bottle he hopes will be there.

Finally his hand finds purchase on the small plastic bottle and he presses it down to Geoff.

Geoff looks up to him with a questioning smile, and all he can choke out is “Please, Geoff.”

Michael watches as Geoff slicks his own erection--the jewelry still missing from his piercing--and then presses his fingers into Michael, spreading the lubricant generously there too.

He kisses Michael deeply then, Michael opening his mouth to accept Geoff’s tongue, to make space for his piercing, as Geoff enters him slowly. Michael has been ready for the sweet fullness of the other man for what feels like hours and he hums into Geoff’s mouth as the other man is buried, the two of them surrendering to the feeling.  

\---

Their lovemaking is not hurried that afternoon. For once, Michael does not push the pace. For once, Geoff does not feel like needs to treat the moment as if it’s his last on earth.

And after the absence and the pull of being apart, Geoff is simply happy to live within that moment, to shut down the complicated mechanics of his brain and run his hands through Michael’s damp hair, to kiss the boy’s mouth until it blushes a darker shade and stroke into him gently as if it were an easy hobby they had shared for years.

Michael does not beg or whine, throwing his head back instead and letting Geoff kiss his throat as their bodies work together easily in the hazy light. Geoff feels, in that moment, as if he were made for this--as if his purpose was to shut off the constant static between his ears and become a vessel to please Michael, humming and grinning beneath him.

\---

 

As strange as it is, Michael realizes in bed that he feels safe for the first time since first day of class. Geoff is here, real, and the consciousness behind his eyes hasn’t lapsed off to another place as he looks down at Michael. Michael kisses up into him and allows himself to be lost completely to the sensation, the warmth.

\---

Their normal sexual banter falls away, replaced by panting, by appreciative hums and not much else. The urgency to curse and praise is gone as they sweat together--and when Michael comes under Geoff, the man stroking him steadily inside and out, his normal obscenities are replaced with a few simple words: “Geoff, god, it’s so good--oh, Geoff, yes--”

And Geoff is close behind, pressing down onto Michael, kissing into his neck, finding no words other than “Michael, Michael, Michael” as Geoff comes into him.

\---

Afterwards, they stay in bed--content and lazy.

Michael is happy to fill the silence, and he starts telling Geoff about how his classes are going, Geoff prompting him on and asking questions as they lay against each other.

Silence descends on them after a few minutes, and Geoff’s hand stills in Michael’s hair. Michael thinks that the other man has fallen asleep, so when Geoff starts talking again after a long pause, Michael jumps.

“At breakfast, you asked me why I didn’t go home for Thanksgiving, Michael,” he says, his voice measured and even. Michael sits still, waiting for the other man to continue, too scared to interrupt or even respond.

“I don’t get along with my family, really,” Geoff says. Michael waits for more, but Geoff volunteers nothing. Michael flips on his stomach to regard the other man.

“What, like, any of them?” Michael asks.

Geoff shakes his head.

And finally: “My mom put all her eggs in one basket with me,” he says. “And I didn’t turn out to be what she was looking for.”

Michael has no idea what to say to that.

“It has to be more complicated than that,” Michael says, gently.

“It seemed like it might be, for a long time,” Geoff says, not making eye contact with him. “I wanted it to be. But the last decade has made it pretty black and white.”

“You don’t have more family than that? Brothers and sisters? Grandparents?”

Geoff shakes his head.

“No,” he says, after a minute. “It’s just my mom and my stepdad.”

“When’s the last time you talked to them?”

Geoff thinks for a moment.

“Five years ago, I guess.”

“So they don’t know you’re in Chewelah, teaching high school?”

“I don’t think so,” Geoff says.

“Don’t you think you should let them know?”

“My mom doesn’t take my calls.”

Michael is working hard to process this new information.

“Could you write them a letter? Would you even want to do that?”

Geoff is thinking again.

“I could,” he says after a long lapse. “I ought to. I think it would be the right thing to do.”

“People can change,” Michael says. “I mean I’m no expert, I know you already know all this stuff. But families can change.”

“No,” Geoff says. “You’re right.”

Michael leans into him heavily, throwing an arm across his belly and pulling him tight. Geoff’s stare doesn’t change, but his mouth flicks into a smile.

“I’m sorry, Geoff,” Michael says. “You didn’t have to tell me, but I’m glad you did. I’m sorry.”

“I’m glad I did, too,” Geoff says. “Thanks.”

\---

The entire situation is one of those things that Geoff finds difficult to think about sober for more than a few minutes at a time, and confessing the reality of it does nothing to ease his anxiety about it. So after a moment, he’s too antsy to stay in bed. He leaves Michael to dress with a kiss on the top of the boy’s head, padding naked into the kitchen to check the pork simmering on the stove.

It’s still a bit early for dinner, but the ramen is almost ready to be assembled.

“Are you hungry?” he asks Michael, stirring the pot. “Do you object to eating dinner at 4 like old people?”

“Fuck that,” Michael says with a smile. “I’ll eat whenever.”

Geoff crosses the apartment to pull on a pair of sweatpants before returning to the kitchen, scrubbing his hands clean.

\---

Michael watches from the bed as Geoff begins puts the finishing touches on their dinner. He’s thankful for the sounds of the other man cooking, utensils clinking against pans. He breathes in the new smells wafting from the stovetop.

Geoff is industrious and single-minded, transferring ingredients from pot to pot, chopping and dicing. Michael can almost watch as the man’s mood changes, improving steadily as he continues to cook. And what begins as a low humming from Geoff escalates as the dish comes together until Geoff is singing openly to himself.

With a flush of joy, Michael realizes it’s an Elvis Costello song from the mix tape he’d made Geoff before the break.

“I got you in my dreams--you should hear the things you say--” Geoff sings in a half-goofy impression of the singer.

“It’s not that it’s so much fun but it’s safer that way,” Michael sings back to him in an equally exaggerated voice.

“Sneaky feelings,” they sing together, louder and even stupider, carrying through the entire dumb chorus as Geoff continues to work.

“So you _have_ been listening to my tape,” Michael says with a smile when they hit a lull in the song.

“Yeah, yeah,” Geoff says. “It’s grown on me. Even if I do hate Elvis Costello.”

When Geoff warns him that they’re getting close, Michael sets up their makeshift dining room table, trying not to get in the way as he pours them both glasses of water and sets the table for an early dinner.

Michael takes his place, waiting patiently, and in a moment Geoff swoops in with two large bowls of noodles and soup.

“Pork ramen,” Geoff explains with a flourish.

“I thought ramen is that shitty soup college students eat,” Michael says.

“It is, if you only want to pay fifty cents for it,” Geoff says. “This is the real thing. Well, as close as I can get to the real thing, being a mediocre white guy with limited access to ingredients.”

Strips of pork and onion float alongside halves of soft boiled egg and kinky noodles as a spicy, unfamiliar smell wafts from the bowls. Michael ventures a spoonful, blowing air across the steaming soup before trying it.

It’s spicy and savory, the flavors of ginger and onion giving away after a moment to sesame, rich pork, and chilis.

“This is fucking delicious,” Michael says, barely remembering to chew. Geoff just smiles in response.

\---

With their stomachs full and the kitchen cleaned, they retire to separate pursuits.

Geoff spreads out notebooks and paperbacks in front of him on the small desk and, grudgingly, Michael fishes homework out of his backpack.

Michael’s not ready, yet, to think about school. To think about Monday looming before him, or the two weeks he’ll spend without a night at Geoff’s. He unlocks his phone instead, procrastinating. He’s got a text from Ray.

>>Ray: You’re at Ramsey’s right? Make sure you lift his classroom key before you leave.

Michael taps back a text.

>>Michael: You want me to steal the key to his classroom?

The answer comes a minute later.

>>Ray: Yeah man, how else are we going to get in on Monday?

Michael had half-forgotten Ray’s plan to decorate Geoff’s classroom, and he feels strangely skeptical about it. It would be better to just leave the classroom the way it is than to halfass a bunch of meaningless decorations. And Michael really doesn’t trust a group of high school seniors to do anything special.

Still, he doesn’t want to be the one reason why the rest of the class doesn’t get to carry out their plan.

>>Michael: OK. I’ll grab it before I leave.

>>Ray: Gavin says his host family will let us come put everything together at their house tomorrow. Can you meet us at 10?

That will cut his time short with Geoff.

He sighs deeply and decides not to answer Ray right away.

\---

Shortly after the sun goes down, Geoff hears Michael’s stirring stop and his breathing go rhythmic. He glances over his shoulder to see the boy asleep on top of a pile of European History homework. Geoff pushes back from the desk quietly and stoops next to the bed, retrieving Michael’s books and stacking them near his backpack.

Finally he strokes a hand across Michael’s back.

“Fuck,” Michael says immediately, his voice strange with sleep. “Sorry Geoff.”

“It’s ok,” Geoff says, pulling the notebook away, placing it on top of the stack. “Why don’t you get in bed?”

Michael obeys, moving clumsily under the comforter before Geoff has a chance to turn it back properly.

Geoff wonders if the boy must be like this at home, if his parents find him sprawled across homework or curled uncomfortably at the dining room table. It wouldn’t surprise him.

The night carries on for Geoff much as it would if Michael weren’t there. He pours a few fingers of bourbon over a chunk of ice and settles into his armchair with a paperback. Tonight, it’s Dan Simmons’ _Abominable_. Good winter reading with long fleshy sentences he could get lost in.

The difference between this Saturday and each Saturday he’d spent alone in the apartment, however, is vast. Michael’s presence puts him at ease, silences the background noise in his mind much better than whiskey ever has.

Geoff drifts, warm and satisfied, as he reads.

\---

Geoff wakes up in the armchair much later, not sure when he’d fallen asleep. The stiffness in his neck suggests that he’s been out for some time, though. He turns off the lamp, not bothering to check the time, and climbs into bed.

Michael wakes lightly, not coming entirely out of a dream as Geoff settles against him, wraps an arm around him. He says Geoff’s name once before falling back into a deep sleep, and Geoff presses a kiss into the back of his neck.

\---

When he wakes up, light is streaming in through window and Michael is bucking sharp against him, pushing himself out of bed in a movement that’s far too sharp for Sunday morning, as far as Geoff is concerned.

“You ok?” Geoff asks.

“Fuck, yeah, uh, I gotta go,” Michael says, unlocking his phone. “It’s fucking 9:40 and I forgot I’m supposed to be at Gavin’s at 10.”

Geoff’s heart drops. Deja vu washes over him: another interrupted Sunday morning.

“Is something wrong?” Geoff asks.

“Yeah, no, not at all,” Michael says. “We just have this big project due tomorrow, and they need my help.”

Geoff watches from the bed as Michael starts pulling on clothes, throwing books into his backpack.

“I’m really sorry Geoff,” he says, tossing the backpack over his shoulder. “Fuck, I’m really sorry.”

He leans down to kiss Geoff goodbye and Geoff pulls him down, opening his mouth to a deeper kiss, grabbing Michael by the collar of his jacket and guiding him until he’s practically laying across Geoff’s lap in the bed.

Surprised, Michael moans into the kiss, his body going slack on top of Geoff’s.

“Fuuuck,” Michael whines. “I swear I’ve never been so sorry about a group project in my entire fucking life Geoff.”

Geoff sighs.

“Fine,” he says, releasing Michael’s jacket and coming as close to a pout as he’ll allow himself. “Good luck, Michael.”

“I’ll see you later, ok?”

“Yep,” Geoff says. “See you in class.”

Michael rushes out, the door clicking behind him. Geoff flops back in bed, trying for a minute to see if he can sleep more but knowing that he’ll fail. He hadn’t planned on spending the entire day without Michael, without anyone to talk to. The silence is abrupt and unwelcomed.

He’s lonely.

And for someone who has lived alone for so long, he realizes, he sucks at dealing with being lonely.

He pushes himself up, retrieves his phone from the kitchen counter, and dials Ryan.

“Ryan, hey, it’s Geoff,” he says, glad when the man picks up the phone, answering brightly and obviously not asleep. “You interested in brunch?”

\---

When Michael pulls up to Gavin’s host family’s house, there’s an astounding number of cars outside. It looks like a goddamn party. He finds a spot to park on the street three houses down and retraces his steps, ringing the doorbell.

Gavin answers, and as he opens the door, Michael can hear a cacophony of voices behind him.

“Michael!” he says, “Ray said you weren’t coming?”

“Yeah, I fucked up and forgot to text him back,” Michael says. “How many people are here?”

Gavin guides him inside.

“Most of the people from our class, plus some randoms from Mr. Ramsey’s other periods.”

“I can’t believe people are actually into this,” Michael says.

“Everybody really likes his class, Michael,” Gavin says.

“Guess I was too preoccupied to notice,” Michael admits.

Gavin smirks at him warmly.

“Did you get his key?” Gavin asks.

“Yeah, I pocketed it in the middle of the night,” Michael says. “At least I didn’t forget to do that. So what are we working on?” Michael asks.

“Follow me,” Gavin says, “it’s grand.”

\---

Ryan arrives at Geoff’s apartment as Geoff is putting the finishing touches on the breakfast he’d planned to serve to Michael.

He greets Ryan warmly, offering him orange juice and coffee before busying himself in the kitchen. He’s fried bacon, sliced and battered fresh sourdough to make thick French toast, and poached several eggs. He beckons Ryan into the kitchen then, pushing a clean plate into his hands and instructing him to take all he wants.

“Jesus, Geoff, this is a feast,” Ryan says. “I guess there are some real perks to being your boyfriend’s backup.”

The word “boyfriend” hits Geoff like an electric shock. Was Michael his _boyfriend_?

He files that thought into his brain for later consideration and pushes forward.

“You say that, Ryan,” Geoff says, “but wait until I drunk dial you the next time Michael won’t pick up the phone.”

Ryan laughs and settles to the floor with his plate.

“What’s that like?” he says through a smile.

“Regrettable,” Geoff admits, sitting opposite Ryan. “Seriously, don’t pick up if I call you after 11.”

“Hell no,” Ryan says. “I’m not passing that opportunity up.”

Geoff frowns at him and Ryan beams back.

“So, any progress with Ray?” Geoff asks gently after a moment.

“None whatsoever,” Ryan says. “I still don’t know if he even realizes I’m in town. I don’t want to harass him, but shit Geoff. I hoped I’d at least get to talk to him once while I’m here.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

Ryan chews thoughtfully.

“I don’t know, Geoff,” he says. “I don’t want you to have to get involved.”

“I won’t be getting involved,” Geoff says. “I’ll just tell him you’re here and you want to talk. That’s it--I’ll deliver the message and butt out.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “I guess that’s a good idea. I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Geoff says. “Just, you know. Let me know what you want me to do whenever you make up your mind.”

“Thanks, Geoff.”

\---

Geoff takes Ryan’s offer of being Michael’s backup to heart after breakfast, running through the same options for entertainment he’d given to Michael the day before since neither man has anything planned for the Sunday.

“Pool,” Ryan says, after Geoff exhausts the list of options. “Is there somewhere near here with a pool table?”

“I’m sure we can find a bar with a table,” Geoff says. “Although we might have to wait until noon for any of them to open. Are you any good, Ryan?”

“I can hold my own,” Ryan says. “Although, uh. I don’t think I’d bet a bathroom blow job on it.”

\---

It turns out that Ryan is halfway decent at pool, and he even helps point out some of the looser spots in Geoff’s game. He corrects the high elbow Geoff uses to stroke, helps walk him through using a ghost ball to line up his shots. All in all they’re evenly matched, and over the course of the lazy, cold afternoon, they shoot through a hell of a lot of quarters.

Ryan had driven them, and once it’s a reasonable hour Geoff, starts drinking beer. The bar--one chosen simply because it has a pool table and opened at eleven--has nothing decent on tap, so Geoff finds himself drinking cheap domestics.

Talking Chaucer over beers and pool is, Geoff realizes, apparently what he’s needed more of in his life. He finds himself laughing easily with Ryan, again glad the man’s in town.

\---

Ryan doesn’t drop him back at his apartment until past dinnertime, Geoff climbing the stairs to his cold, dark apartment. His stomach drops a bit and he fights a pang of regret, flipping on lights to make the apartment seem more alive and pouring bourbon into a glass.

He flicks open his phone, realizing he hasn’t checked it all day, and there are several texts from Michael--each one growing increasingly impatient at not having heard back from Geoff.

Geoff starts to tap out a text but realizes that he’s more buzzed than he’d thought, all of his words autocorrecting to nonsense. Frustrated, he brings up Michael in his contacts list and thumbs the “Call” button.

The phone rings six times before Michael picks it up, mumbling a rushed “Hang on,” before going silent.

“Michael?” he says into the phone, suddenly unsure that he’s dialed the correct number.

“Yeah, hang on,” he says louder. There’s the sound of footsteps, a door shutting. “Sorry, I had to get back to my room. Where the fuck were you all day? I stopped by your place after we were done and your car was there but you weren’t.”

“Yeah, well,” Geoff says, half angry that he’d missed seeing Michael again. “I went and did stuff after you ditched me.”

“Are you drunk, Geoff?” Michael asks after a pause.

“Not really,” Geoff says. “I don’t know. I just had some beer.”

“Well at least you weren’t driving, Christ,” Michael says. “Where did you go without a car?”

“Ryan drove me. We went and played pool.”

“Oh,” Michael says, suddenly quiet.

\---

It’s hard for Michael not to pout.

Not that Geoff had any way of knowing, but Michael had spent all day working on a surprise for the other man. No, it wasn’t fair for him to hold Geoff accountable for that. No, it wasn’t fair to expect Geoff to never see anyone but him.

But it pisses him off, damn it.

It should’ve been _them_ playing pool, not Ryan.

“Well, anyway,” Michael says after a pause. “Sorry I took off. I’ll see you in class.”

“Hey, Michael, wait--” Geoff demands.

“Yeah?”

“Do we have to hang up right now?”

“Geoff, it’s 8 o’clock and you’re drunk,” Michael says, impatient. “This isn’t going to be productive.”

“Damn it, Michael,” Geoff says, sounding defeated. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

“How the fuck did you get to be so smart, Michael, you’re just a kid and--”  
  
“Geoff, _Geoff_. I’m hanging up the phone, Geoff.”

“OK, ok, ok, Michael, ok.”

“Goodnight Geoff.”

“Night Michael. Sleep well. Have a good--”

Michael hangs up on him.

\---

Geoff is spectacularly hungover the next morning. He wakes up feeling like the inside of a bottle of Newcastle.

It’s not due to the quantity of what he’d consumed, really, but the fact that almost all of the previous night’s drinking was comprised of the shittiest beer possible.

He almost feels like he’s got the beginning of a flu, and he forces himself out of bed in the cold apartment to chug water and down some aspirins.

And although he knows he’d feel better if he ate, he’s already running late as he pulls on half-wrinkled clothes. He’s got time for coffee and not much else.

\---

Geoff doesn’t realize that he’s missing the key to his classroom until he’s walking up to the building. He fights panic, having no idea what the protocol is to replacing a missing key, not knowing whether or not he’ll be in deep shit with administration over it.

Once he’s inside the door and out of the cold, he taps out a panicked text to Burnie.

>>Geoff: I have no fucking clue how or why but I don’t have the key to my class. The fuck do I do now?

He waits to see if anything bubbles in reply, but the screen is still. Burnie must still be on the road in to school.

Defeated, Geoff starts up the stairwell to the second floor. He might as well wait by his classroom for someone more experienced to offer advice. What a fucking way to start the week: hungover and probably in trouble.  
But as he approaches his classroom, he hears what sounds like an entire class in session down the normally quiet hall. And as he gets closer, he realizes it’s coming from _his_ classroom.

\---

“Mr. Ramsey!” Lindsay says cheerfully. She’s the first one to spot him, and they all spin to watch their teacher walk in.

He looks utterly bewildered as he enters the classroom, his brows knitting together and his mouth working silently.

“What the fuck?” he says finally--not sounding mad--and it earns a laugh from all of the students.

\---

His entire first period class is already in the classroom--not sitting neatly in their seats, which would’ve been strange enough, but in varying states of hanging things on his classroom’s walls.

“What are you guys doing?”

He realizes too late that he has turned to Michael by default for an explanation, but Ray steps in between them immediately.

“We’re decorating your sad classroom, Mr. Ramsey,” Ray says, forcing a grin.

“Surprise!” Gavin crows, far too late.

“Seriously?” Geoff says. “How did you guys get in?”

“ _Somebody_ found a key,” Ray says, lifting his eyebrows and cutting his eyes at Michael over his shoulder to drive the point home that Geoff shouldn’t ask any more questions about it.

Geoff realizes immediately where his key is and how it got there and wisely decides to move on, examining the new interior of his classroom.

The high walls, once blank, now display large posters--which, Geoff realizes, stepping closer--are hand-drawn. Each one is a large portrait with a speech bubble. He moves towards the first one.

The poster shows a young man with thick, round glasses and a skyline in the background. Geoff recognizes him immediately.

His speech bubble reads:

"Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private." --Allen Ginsberg

Geoff is smiling so hard that his face hurts as he moves to the second one. It’s Shakespeare, easily recognizable, with a bookshelf behind him.

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."

And the next, a young Steinbeck.

“I have come to believe that a great teacher is a great artist and that there are as few as there are any other great artists. Teaching might even be the greatest of the arts since the medium is the human mind and spirit.”

He continues around the room, reading each quote, admiring the portraits in varying styles depicting Virginia Woolf, Toni Morrison, Harper Lee, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Jhumpa Lahiri.

There’s just one left.

Geoff does a double take at the last one, tucked at the back of the room.

Looking back at him is a young man with an exaggerated mustache, hair wild, shirt pushed up to his elbows to expose forearms laced with dark tattoos.

“Seriously, guys, there’s no wrong answer,” the quote reads, with his name written in a neat script beneath.

He’s staring at himself, lovingly rendered by his own students.

Geoff’s face is hot, his chest tight, and he’s aware suddenly that the class’ eyes are on him, that they’ve followed him to the corner of the room to see his reaction.

\---

When Geoff turns to face them, the look on his face is one Michael has seen a handful of times.

If Michael had the ability and time to interpret the look for the other students, the closest he’d be able to get to explaining it would’ve been to tell them: this is the look of a man who has spent years of his life convincing himself that he’s unlovable and unworthy, being presented, suddenly, with evidence to the contrary.

It’s a look that makes Michael feel devastated and hopeful at the same time. It makes him want to run to Geoff and throw his arms around the man’s neck and say “I told you so, goddamn it”--but instead he hangs back at the edge of the students, forcing himself to be satisfied with just observing.

He realizes after a moment that the other students have no idea what to make out of Geoff’s stunned expression, out of the fact that he’s gone from smiling to stupefied--so from the back of the crowd he says, “Hey Mr. Ramsey. You like it or what?”

The question shakes Geoff out of his stupor, and though he still doesn’t smile, he at least looks like he’s thinking of something to say.

\---

“This is… the nicest thing anyone’s done for me,” Geoff says finally, hearing himself force out words. A ripple of satisfaction goes through the students. “Seriously, you guys. This is amazing. I can’t--... I can’t even believe. Who did this? Why?”

Gavin and Lindsay push to the front.

“All of your classes worked on it this weekend,” Lindsay says. “Once Ray brought it up, everyone wanted to pitch in.”

“The posters were Lindsay’s idea,” Gavin says. The redhead next to him smiles broadly.

“This is really amazing,” Geoff says. “This must have taken you all hours.”

No one disagrees, and all of his students are smiling.

“Can I fucking hug you guys? Is that out of line?”

The cursing earns him a laugh again, and in the moment he doesn’t care who hears it or what kind of example it sets. Laughing, Lindsay crashes into his arms and hugs him, Gavin joining a second later.

“Seriously, I need to hug all of you--my heart’s gonna burst,” Geoff says, laughing high and clear. Gavin and Lindsay let him free and, seeing Ray back away, Geoff grabs the frowning student and clutches him to his chest.

Ray sags in his arms.

“Stranger danger,” Ray says, “I need an adult--”

“Shut up, Ray,” Gavin says.

“This is incredible, you guys,” Geoff says. “Thank you. Thank you all so much.”

\---

Michael watches as Geoff forces hugs on _every one_ of his students--and with a shock, Michael realizes that he’s crying. His throat is constricted and his face feels hot and Michael is just so goddamned glad that for once in his stupid teaching career, Geoff is seeing what an impact he has on his students.

Michael forces himself through a slow breath, but it’s too late and Geoff has already noticed. His eyes keep shooting back to Michael as he smiles and makes his way through the class.

And of course--fucking of course--he saves Michael for last.

By the time he gets to Michael, Michael has choked back the emotion and gone stony faced--and he accepts the hug grudgingly, allowing Geoff to squeeze him warmly.

“Thank you, Michael,” he says. “You sneaky little shit.” 


	26. Interlude: Five Times Geoff Almost Says ‘I Love You’--Plus The One Time When It’s Michael

**1.**

Geoff’s only been off campus for half an hour before he gets a text on Monday.

»Michael: Can I stop by sometime tonight and return your key?

Geoff smiles—and although he has second thoughts about welcoming his student over on a weeknight, he admits to himself that he wouldn’t mind seeing Michael.

»Geoff: Sure thing. I’ll be there.

They’d left it so odd on Sunday that Geoff has no idea what might be in store for him when Michael arrives.

Teaching class had been out of the question that morning, even after the initial shock of the surprise had worn off. He’d excused himself to the teachers’ lounge—ostensibly to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee and find a donut. In reality, he needed a moment to collect himself, to get over the impulse to continue swearing and fucking hugging everybody. That behavior might’ve flown on a college campus, but it was not exactly the type of thing he felt comfortable doing in the private high school class.

He’d returned after a minute, unable to stop thanking them all, knowing he was probably erasing any sort of aloof credibility he had earned in their eyes—and not caring.

At lunchtime, Gus and Burnie had pushed their way into the room, asking about the text he’d shot Burnie in a panic before school. Geoff explained it away, and it was easily glossed over the minute his fellow teachers saw the new posters. Gus ribbed Geoff that his kids were obviously looking for extra credit when they made his poster because it was far too handsome. They dragged him for lunch at the cantina, which did his beer-punished stomach some good.

The second half of the day had gone by quickly—maybe because he had done something other than sit alone in his classroom for lunch—and he had resolved to force himself across campus more often in the future.

Settling back into his apartment that afternoon, he wonders how the rest of Michael’s day must have gone. Drunk and pouting, he’d failed to explain to Michael on Sunday that he’d only called Ryan because he’d been jarringly lonely, that he’d only wanted to play pool so that he could be a more challenging opponent for Michael.

Not, he realizes, that it would probably make a difference. The explanation or the practice.

—-

When there’s a knock on his door at five, Geoff opens the door with an apology already on his lips.

Michael pushes past him, school bag slung over one shoulder, kicking off his shoes and flopping down onto Geoff’s bed. Geoff smiles in spite of himself and realizes that it’s one of the loveliest sights in the world.

And in that split second, reality spirals off away from Geoff, into a future where Geoff moves out of the one-room studio apartment with a mattress on the floor, into a future where Michael is more grown and less of a kid, a future where Geoff—older, too, himself—thinks back to these winter evenings where everything good in his life had started, those nights where they had warmed themselves in the golden light of the small space, full of life and the smells of dinner cooking, a promising beacon within the cold nights swirling with punishing snow. He’s gone far away from himself, dreaming of a time when he’ll be nostalgic for what he feels right now: a fresh, full-bodied love for Michael Jones.

Geoff opens his mouth to speak, the three words on the back of his throat—but Michael is too fast.

“I just got to the bacchanal—holy shit Geoff, this goddamn book,” he says, pulling The Secret History from his bag and letting it flop open on the mattress.

Geoff is shaken pleasantly from his daydream.

“You’re liking it?”

“I think you should’ve warned me that I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on jack shit else until I’m done with it,” Michael says. “Do you realize I read this stupid thing through lunch and my free period today?”

“Heaven forbid you consume literature for pleasure,” Geoff says.

“You’re fucking brainwashing me is what’s happening,” Michael says. “And I don’t appreciate it. I have video games to think about.”

Geoff barks a laugh, sitting heavily down onto the mattress next to Michael. Michael hasn’t taken his jacket off and the garment is almost oozing cold from the outdoor chill.

“I believe you have a key for me?”

Michael smirks, digging again in the bag.

“Sorry, Geoff,” he says. “Hope it didn’t freak you out too bad thinking you’d lost it.”

“Just be glad I texted Burnie instead of calling Hullum,” Geoff says.

“Christ,” Michael says.

“Hey,” Geoff says, getting Michael to turn and look at him. He catches the other man by the chin and, smiling, leans to kiss Michael deeply. It starts sweet and measured, something just meant to last a moment, but Michael is his typical self and Geoff can almost _feel_ the begging in the way that Michael kisses back into him. He resists the urge to give in and is almost successful until Michael’s hand finds the hem of his shirt, teasing under it and up his belly.

Geoff breaks the kiss and Michael is smiling wickedly.

“Come on,” Michael says. “Don’t tell me you have shit else to do tonight.”

“I’m not the one with homework,” Geoff says.

“Seriously, Geoff?”

Geoff doesn’t bother replying, hitching one eyebrow instead.

“You’re a bastard,” Michael says.

“I’m aware,” he says. “Next time bring along your finished homework and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

 

**2.**

“Whatcha got there?”

Geoff jumps so hard in his seat that he almost falls backwards. It’s Tuesday and he’s propped in an uncomfortable library chair, balancing precariously on two legs at a cubicle in a quiet corner of the high school’s large library.

“Christ, Michael,” he hisses at the student who has popped his head over the edge of the cubicle wall. “Don’t do that. You almost killed me.”

“It would serve you right,” Michael says, not even trying to whisper. “I thought you’d have learned a lesson by now.”

“And you’d feel terrible if I had a concussion right now,” Geoff shoots back, only barely keeping his own voice down.

“Maybe a little.”

“What do you want?” Geoff asks.

“Wanna know what you’re reading,” Michael says. “Is it for class?”

“I don’t know,” Geoff says, picking the anthology of poetry back up again. “I guess I just started reading it and got lost. Bob Perelman. Interesting stuff—a lot of commentary about language and it’s pretty funny, even. It’s too difficult for class, but you might like him.”

“Flatterer,” Michael says with a crooked grin.

“Ass kisser,” Geoff says, teasing him.

They beam at each other for a minute, awash in the current of white noise generated by students speaking in low voices, of sneakers on carpet, of fingertips turning pages, of desktop computers humming. Geoff can’t pretend for long that he’s not happy to see Michael, even just for a moment.

What a strange existence.

And it almost feels right to tell Michael, to confess in a quiet and practiced voice: I love you.

“Where are you in The Secret History?” he says instead.

“Oh my god Geoff. They just got to the ravine. I was headed in to find a place to sit and keep reading when I saw you headed in like a man on a mission.”

Geoff snorts a laugh at the thought of Michael following him.

“I saw Ellis though and I had a question so I got sidetracked before I could bother you.”

“Well, it’s a good corner,” Geoff says. “You’re welcome to join me and keep reading.”

Michael pauses at that, tilts his head. Geoff realizes he normally balks at the two of them being seen together anywhere, but it was plausible enough that the two would run into each other at the library.

“You sure?” Michael says.

“Yeah,” Geoff says. “Pull up a chair.”

They sit in silence for half an hour after that, not touching or even looking at one another, Michael’s simple presence charging Geoff up like a fresh battery.

 

**3.**

Although he does not bake or go to church or remotely enjoy Christmas songs or have a favorite seasonal movie, Geoff loves Christmastime.

It’s the only time of year when spending a ridiculous amount of effort choosing a present for someone is not only sanctioned by the community but encouraged.

And of course he’s pulled out the stops for Michael.

It’s been a long time since he’s had anyone to buy anything for. And after all: Burnie and Gus had been right. The salary he earned at the private high school bordered on ridiculous, and Geoff had very few expenses outside of keeping his bar nicely stocked and his rent paid.

So, sure, he’d gone a little overboard for Michael.  

There’s a package waiting for Geoff when he arrives home on Wednesday. He’d stayed late on campus and then fought the howling wind to grocery shop, and Geoff mounts the stairs inside the apartment building, knocking snow off his shoes as he goes. The package, when he arrives at his unit, is oblong and propped against his door.

Once inside, shaking off the cold of the evening, Geoff unpacks its contents carefully. He spreads the items across the floor of his apartment and retrieves the two other gifts he has already set aside.

Gifts have always been an odd thing for Geoff, and he knows that it’s not unusual for him to get more pleasure from finding and giving them than the recipient gets in the end. Which is selfishly, utterly ok with him.

And of course there’s no adequate way for Geoff to express how thankful he is for Michael through a bunch of material items. He can acknowledge that. But he’s done his damnedest to try, anyway.

He would love to tease Michael, call him up and say, “I’m looking at a pile of Christmas presents for you right now,” but he doesn’t want the kid to feel like he needs to get Geoff anything special. So he squashes that urge.

Still, he unlocks his phone, flicks down to Michael in his contacts list, and thumbs the “Call” button.

“Hello?” Michael answers cautiously after just one ring.

“Hey Michael,” Geoff says. “How’d your Wednesday turn out?”

“Uh, decent, I guess,” Michael says. “What are you up to?”

His voice is that of a man walking on eggshells and Geoff realizes it’s the first casual conversation on the phone that Geoff has attempted sober.

“I just got home,” Geoff says. “I’m not drunk dialing you this time.”

Michael puffs out a laugh on the other end of the line.

“Well that’s a relief,” he says. “I was gonna say, it’s only like 6 o’clock.”

“Trust me, there have been nights when I definitely could’ve gotten a drunk dial going by six.”

“I wish I could say that surprises me,” Michael says. “So, what’s up?”

Geoff’s brain is suddenly boiling hot with all of the information that he’d like to let bubble over—that he probably would’ve, had he been drinking, he realizes. He wants to tell Michael what he has planned for the weekend after exams, wants to tell Michael about what he’s going to give him and what it all means, wants to tell Michael—he realizes after a moment—that he loves him so goddamn much it’s sickening.

“Hello?” Michael says.

“I guess I just wanted to hear your voice,” Geoff says, lamely.

“You’re such a fucking nerd,” Michael says. He’s doing something in the background, and Geoff hears pages shuffling. “And I’m sure that’s not even why you called but now you’ve gotten yourself freaked out about something.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Geoff says brightly.

“Yep, nailed it,” Michael says. “So you want to talk about the weather or something until you work up the nerve to tell me whatever it is you called about?”

“Nah,” Geoff says. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Hey,” Michael says, sounding offended. “I’m not trying to be a dick, don’t go all serious.”

“No you just _are_ a dick,” Geoff says through a smile. “I understand the difference and I appreciate it.”

There’s a pause, more papers shuffling.

“Anyway, I really will let you go. I’ve got to start on dinner,” Geoff says.

“Great, I’ll be right over,” Michael says, not missing a beat. “What are we having?”

“Michael I—”

“Kidding, _kidding_ Geoff,” Michael says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?”

“Yep, see you in the morning, Michael. Goodnight.”

 

**4.**

Geoff doesn’t know what possesses him to finally pen a letter to his mother on Thursday, but he finds himself sitting down with a pad at his desk before he realizes what he’s doing.

It takes four attempts to get going, each time Geoff going back and editing himself, censoring himself until he gives up, ripping the pages out to start anew.

It hurts the way that running in cold air for too long hurts—raw and real and sharp in your chest, making your whole body seem empty.

He considers a drink, but the last thing he wants to do is get sloppy and sentimental, scrawling unintelligibly what would be his first contact with anyone in his family for five years. No, he’ll do it sober and only afterwards will he allow himself to be terrifically drunk.

Finally he lets the pen move.

_‘Mom,_

_I’d like to apologize for the years I’ve let pass between us. I wish you would answer my calls, but I understand why you haven’t and why you gave up after that year. I put you through plenty, and I’d like to tell myself that you’ve come to see how much you put me through, too._

_I live in Chewelah, Washington, now—six or seven hours from the coast—and I’m teaching high school. I have a hell of a class. Gus and Burnie are here too, I’m sure you remember them from the time you and Justin flew up in undergrad._

_As I build a life here, I find myself thinking about you._

_I made Mema’s stuffing at Thanksgiving. I’m sure you were thinking of her, too._

_Five years has been long enough to let me stop being angry. It was exhausting, anyway._

_I’d like you to be a part of my life again, mom._

_I’m sure you don’t like who I grew up to be any more than you used to, and not much has changed since you last saw me._

_I’d change what I want if I could._

_I met somebody here. We’re working on something that feels important. And even with the way you and I left it, there’s room in this for you. I’d like you to know me again._

_I’m sure you opened this hoping I was asking you to come up for a big wedding, or giving you the grandkid you want. Or maybe that I was moving back south. I’m sure it’s hard not to be disappointed, even now._

_I’m sorry that I pushed you away—that we pushed each other away._

_I want to tell you that I’m happy for the first time since our paths diverged._

_My new number is at the bottom with my new address in Chewelah._

_I love you._

_—Geoff’_

He doesn’t let himself re-read it this time, scrawling his contact information at the bottom and folding the page tight. He puts it into an envelope that he’d already stamped and addressed—a name and address he’ll always know by heart—and seals it immediately. He lets the momentum of the actions propel him forward, out of the apartment, down the stairs to the mailbox, and he drops the letter in too fast to allow himself to hesitate.

The wheels are in motion. The letter is gone. Too late to back out now.

Geoff climbs the stairs back to his apartment and into a familiar flow, an invisible tether tugging him through the door and into the kitchen where he uncaps a beer, pours two fingers of bourbon, slams the coarse liquor into himself, and, untasting, gulps the cold beer before the heat of the bourbon can snake up into the back of his throat.

It does nothing to touch the panic inside of him.

Would any amount of reconciliation be worth opening his life up to that shit again?

 _I should’ve done this on a fucking Friday,_ Geoff thinks to himself as he pours a second whiskey into the same glass. He’ll be a wreck the next day for class at this rate.

The second bourbon slows him down, his body catching up, the alcohol hitting him and wracking his body with vertigo.

He finds himself in bed with a death grip on his phone.

In the haze of booze, it’s easier to look at his actions without immediately regretting them. Even if she calls him just to hurl slurs at him, his mother’s voice would be a nice thing to hear. He wonders how she’s aged in five years, how Justin must look.

She would like Michael, Geoff realizes with a laugh, if he were just some kid he knew and not the human he’d settled on loving. Brash and smart and bullheaded, not afraid to feel emotions and let you goddamn know about it—some of her best traits too. They’d get along famously in another universe, he thinks.

And he’s already lapsing into theoretical conversations with her in his head, circling the same drain they always had when they spoke on the phone those last few times. He forces himself to stop—the room spinning a little as he looks down to his phone, flicks it open, navigates to Michael’s contact information.

He really needs someone right now, he realizes.

But it can’t be Michael. He can’t heap it onto Michael. Not this. He’ll wait to see how he’s received—everything would be speculation at this point.

 _I love you,_ he thinks to himself, as if just wishing it into the air enough would make Michael know it. _I’m going to do everything I can to repair this thing because I love you, Michael._

But no. It’s not the right time. He won’t say it drunk.

 

5.

He gets Michael’s text around 11 that same night.

»Michael: Hey can you meet me for breakfast in the canteen tomorrow before class?

Geoff’s still buzzing and it takes an enormous amount of concentration to tap out a reply.

»Geoff: The canteen serves breakfast?

»Michael: What the fuck, do you ever even leave that classroom or what?

»Geoff: You don’t think that’s too conspicuous?

»Michael: It is but I legit wanna talk about a book, no tricks

»Geoff: Won’t be great company, I’m working on a hell of a hangover

There’s a long pause from Michael’s end. And finally:

»Michael: Lovely.

»Geoff: I’m sorry.

»Michael: It can wait then.

»Geoff: I’m really really sorry

»Michael: Get some sleep.

Geoff types it out without thinking:

»Geoff: I love you Michael

And deletes it just as quickly.

 

1.

The “thought bubbles” indicating that Geoff is typing a reply come to life and Michael braces himself for some additional apology.

The bubbles sit there… sit there. Then disappear.

Michael locks his phone down, hoping it means that Geoff has gone to sleep.

But his phone buzzes to life a minute later.

»Geoff: Just come to my place before school.

Michael smiles. That’s much better than the damn canteen.

»Michael: When?

»Geoff: Early as you want.

—-

‘Early as Michael wants’ ends up translating to 5:15.

He hopes that Geoff was exaggerating the hangover. But if he wasn’t, then it serves him goddamn right that Michael’s so early. Why was he drinking himself into oblivion on a Thursday, anyway?

He’s not completely without a heart though. Michael throws a package of grocery store scones into his schoolbag and brews a pot of coffee which he splits neatly between two mismatched thermoses before he slips out of the house into the frigid, dark morning.

The roads are empty, icy, and even though Michael takes his time, he’s at Geoff’s apartment earlier than he’d planned.

He knocks on the door and waits.

There’s movement on the other side of the door, but it takes almost a full minute of waiting before Geoff is there, cracking the door for him. He’s turned the dimmest light on in the apartment and it barely illuminates the space from the kitchen.

“Hey,” Geoff says, his voice sounding demolished. He curls a knuckle into one eye as Michael walks past.

“Hey,” Michael echoes back. “Guess you weren’t exaggerating about the hangover.”

Michael puts his bag on the kitchen counter, unpacking the thermoses and food.

“No,” Geoff says, crossing the room and sitting gingerly down on his bed. “I most definitely was not.” He lays himself back down slowly with the slow movements of someone who is either in a lot of pain or trying to avoid a lot of pain. He sprawls awkwardly, peering at Michael.

“What the hell were you doing drinking yourself into a stupor on a Thursday night?”

“Hm,” Geoff says, shutting his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it. Trust me, I’m paying for it now.” His fingers curl into a blanket and Michael watches as his knuckles go white against the black tattoos.

“Are you gonna puke?”

“No, just… gimme a second.”

He looks miserable and any resentment Michael had at first is now waning. If Geoff doesn’t want to talk about it, then there’s surely a reason behind it—the man would’ve been all too quick to make a self-deprecating comment if he had simply been drinking out of boredom.

“Are you gonna call out?” Michael asks. It doesn’t seem like there’s any way he’ll get his shit together by the time school starts.

“No, no, no,” Geoff says. “I’ll make it in. I just gotta—OK actually I _am_ going to puke.”

Luckily the bathroom is just a few steps away. Michael has no idea what to do as Geoff crosses efficiently into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Mercifully he turns on the faucet so that the sounds of his vomiting don’t echo through the apartment—but Michael still hears him wretch twice before flushing the toilet and brushing his teeth.

He lingers in the bathroom for a few minutes afterwards, and when he comes out, his hair is groomed and he looks, Michael admits, much better. Geoff flicks on the larger overhead light as he crosses to the kitchen.

“Well, I feel much better now,” he says, giving Michael plenty of distance. “Sorry I didn’t get that part out of the way before you showed up.”

“Granted, I did show up super early,” Michael says. “You gonna be OK?”

“Yeah, actually,” Geoff says, not making eye contact with him. “I guess I just needed to puke my guts out.”

He reaches into his fridge and retrieves a can of ginger ale before grabbing a bottle of pills resting on top of the appliance. He shakes three oblong capsules into his palm—Ibuprofen, Michael realizes—before popping the soda and swallowing the pills. He chugs most of the soda immediately. When he steps back, he still won’t look at Michael.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have told you to come here this morning,” he says, looking past Michael. “This is hardly the most flattering state to have to deal with me in.”

“Seriously, Geoff?”

“I just didn’t want to disappoint you—I thought I’d have my shit together by the time you got here.”

“Geoff, Christ, I don’t care,” Michael says.

He catches Geoff’s eyes, finally, and it strikes Michael that he’s taken on the same look he had back in October: someone exhausted, someone haunted by something.

And for a moment, the enormity of Geoff’s life outside of his relationship with Michael hits the boy viscerally. The man might as well be a goddamn iceberg with the amount of self he’s willing to share with Michael. What was he getting these days—four percent? Maybe five? And even with the miniscule amount of Geoff that he’s been allowed to see, Michael realizes, he’s probably seen more of the man than anyone has in a long time.

And although Michael has spent the past year and a half of his life resisting the pressure to think about his future, to consider what life at college might be like, a picture of the next years of his life starts to take shape and Michael allows himself to see it. He imagines a time when he’ll stand in a different kitchen with Geoff, when they’ll lock eyes and Michael will actually know what the fuck is going on in the other man’s head—what faraway memory he’s dreaming of, what element of his past he’s mired in and unable to communicate.

Were there really mistakes Geoff regretted—huge missteps in life that couldn’t be fixed—or was it just another example of the other man overthinking things profoundly, locked in battle with his own thoughts? What the hell had happened to him—or what had he done—that could result in so much goddamn emotional baggage?

And in the same moment, Michael realizes that it won’t matter. It only takes that four or five percent of Geoff to convince him, to let Michael know that he’s made the right choice. And if he always has to struggle to know what’s going on, if it’s always an uphill trudge to pull Geoff out of himself when he gets like this, Michael is ready for the effort because he’ll be damned if he’s ever cared about someone the way he cares about this asshole—and it hits Michael that there’s nothing Geoff could do to him that would change the feeling, that Geoff could leave tomorrow and although it would hurt, would be devastating, in the end Michael would only hope that he was happy—and the thoughts weave together with the sudden fullness in Michael’s chest, his throat, and in that moment, standing in Geoff’s kitchen, the other man unresponsive and hungover and barely able to make eye contact, Michael realizes deeply and without doubt that he loves Geoff.

“You ok?” Geoff asks, finishing off his soda.

“Yeah, uh,” Michael starts. “I—” and he almost blurts it out then and there, without a goddamn filter as usual.

“You look like you’re the one who’s gonna puke now.”

Michael laughs lightly. He can’t decide if he’s thankful Geoff interrupted him or not.

“Sorry,” he says. “I got thinking about something. I brought some scones and coffee.”

“Jesus, Michael,” Geoff says, shaking his head. “You’re awfully nice for being an asshole.”

“Someone’s gotta take care of you, Geoff,” Michael says. “You’ve made that clear as hell.”

“Have I?” Geoff asks, cocking his head.

“Are you kidding me?” Michael says, pressing the container of scones into his hand when it becomes clear that he’s not going to take one himself. “You’re like a drunk baby chick that fell out of its nest or something. I’m surprised you made it this far without me.”

Geoff bites into the first scone with enthusiasm and his face is starting to have some color in it again.

“I am too, Michael,” he admits, smiling. 


	27. Chapter 27

In the late spring when Geoff was 16, his grandpa died.

Mom was working overtime then, no time to liquidate the estate of a father she’d never had much in common to begin with. There were no other surviving relatives to go through the man’s two-story suburban home. No spare money to pass the job off to a company.

The task fell to Geoff, jobless and bookish and utterly unable to say no to his mother.

School let out into a season of drought and Geoff began the undertaking. He set aside any paperwork that looked important, any mementos of emotional value. He parsed through to decide what went to charity, what could go to a garage sale, what looked like it could be valuable and ought to be appraised.

The upside of the job was that Geoff was allowed the use of his grandpa’s car until he was done going through the house. It was an ancient Cadillac--felt to him more like being the captain of a cruiseliner than driving.

But for those dry, sun-bleached months, it represented a bit of freedom. Even if he was chained to the house as long as the sun was up.

It was solitary, solemn work. Geoff didn’t mind it.

He hadn’t known his grandpa very well. He knew his mom didn’t get along well with the man, knew that he’d show up at holidays and birthdays with something expensive for Geoff--which always pissed his mom off. Geoff hadn’t disliked him, but they’d hardly had a warm relationship.

\---

He’d overlooked the freezer in the garage on his first day at the empty house, but he stumbled upon it first thing the next morning. The large chest hummed quietly.

Inside, Geoff had found bags upon bags of frozen groceries and quickly tossed it all into the garbage to defrost far away from Geoff’s sense of smell. From the stickers on some of the packages, Geoff realized that his grandpa must have stocked up on food every time there was a sale--and from the random assortment of goods, it seemed that he must have bought it whether he wanted to eat it or not.

In one corner of the freezer, however, Geoff found a few dozen packages of single-serving candy. Snickers and Reese’s cups. There must have been hundreds of pieces of candy.

They were unopened. The expiration date said they were still good, too.

It took three trips to get all of the bags from the garage into the house, where he dumped them unceremoniously onto the table and regarded them warily.

\---

Even when he became hungry, Geoff would not eat the candy he had found in the garage freezer. He skipped lunch most days. Geoff exhausted the pocket cash his mom had given him for lunches during the day, too frustrated and short on gas money to drive that couch of a car across town to their little house.

The thought of the candy haunted him as he dug through a closet full of clothes that had been out of style for decades, sorted through paperwork that was as old as he was, tried to piece together what was valuable and what was trash.

Despite his hunger, it seemed wrong and strange to eat what he’d found--like he should just have thrown it out with the rest of the groceries.

What was the moral implication, he wondered, of eating a dead man’s candy?

\---

A month after he found the freezer, the mental mythology he’d built around the candy was almost too much to bear. He found himself mulling over it all the time--the strange irony of a man who had hoarded away food he didn’t even want. For who? So that his grandson--practically a stranger--could eat it?

His grandpa hadn’t been saving it for him. He’d planned on eating it at some point, clearly.

And despite his planning, he’d died without touching a single piece of it.

Geoff wondered if the man had _wanted_ to eat the candy. Or if he’d bought it and forgotten about it. And then died.

There was something big there, some metaphor or deeper meaning.

No matter how hard he tried to wrap his mind around it, though, Geoff couldn’t get at it.

\---

In the end, he took it home and gave the candy to his neighbors without ever eating a piece.

\---

That summer had been the worst of his life--up until age 16 and in the years following to the present. What started as an imposition on his time filled up his chest like wet cement before becoming rigid and heavy.

His mother couldn’t have known. He didn’t blame her anyway. But chipping away at some stranger’s life, seeing all of the missed opportunities and wasted hours of another human’s existence, had started Geoff down a path he hadn’t considered.

Later, in college, Geoff would come across the term “existential crisis” and realize _ah, yes, the summer when I was 16._ I understand now--and the summer of drought, of untouched candy, of mothball smells and impotent Alabama thunderheads would rush back to him and fill him up with memories like empty rooms.

But then, in that moment, in that summer,  it was all he could do to fill his journal up with questions written with cheap ballpoints. If someone asked Geoff when he stopped being a kid, when he became an adult, he would’ve answered that it happened in those months of forest fires and weathermen advising everyone to stay inside against the smoke, of garage sales and hair matted with sweat against his scalp, making his big ears even more obvious, every bit of him amplified in the wrong way.

Other teenagers were out having their first kisses, their first beers, watching TRL on hazy afternoons and getting paid for real summer jobs. Their dramas played out in the humidity, the heat.

Geoff learned how to be alone that summer.

* * *

Things don’t go to shit until halfway through Friday morning.

\---

Sure, the early part of the morning hadn’t exactly been perfect to begin with, Geoff waking in the dark in a spinning room, chugging water before Michael arrived only to then find himself retching it back into the toilet.

And although he had been embarrassed with Michael there to witness it all, the boy had been instantly reassuring.

Geoff found himself almost telling Michael about the letter to his mother ten times, wanting to explain why he’d found it necessary to drink to the point of sickness, but it seemed that Michael had already forgiven him. No need to go off the rails so early in the morning, dumping what amounted to five years of unresolved emotions on the young man right before school.

Standing there in the kitchen, eating dry scones and bitter coffee together, Geoff felt like he was getting a dose of good medicine. He’d purged the things he was afraid of from his system, vomiting them like so much whiskey and water into that letter and sending it off. It was out of his hands now. He was ready to wear his love for Michael like a shield and stride out into the world.

They finished off everything Michael had brought with him, Geoff ribbing him about the quality of the coffee but ultimately thankful.

Michael, it seemed, was developing some sort of instinct for Geoff’s heavily buried emotions--a realization that both delighted and vaguely troubled him. The smaller man had wrapped himself warmly around Geoff, hugging him steadily and gently there in the kitchen while they both took deep breaths. It was what he’d needed since he’d sealed the envelope--more than whiskey, more than sleep--he’d needed that reassurance, Michael’s touch, and he drank it in like hot broth.

They’d parted happily, getting into separate cars, driving separately to school. It hadn’t been much, but the shared moment had felt important.

\---

Geoff gets Ryan’s text just two minutes before his first period class starts. Students are already trickling in as Geoff checks his phone quickly.

>>Ryan: Changed my mind. Pull the trigger: please tell Ray I’m here.

Geoff taps an answer quickly.

>>Geoff: 10-4

It’s not much time to form a game plan.

\---

Class wraps up and Michael, Ray, and Gavin linger a minute before gathering their stuff. Michael keeps searching out Geoff’s eyes, but it’s not him Geoff needs to talk to today.

“Narvaez,” Geoff says gently. “A moment of your time? I’ll write you a pass.”

“Uh,” Ray says, cocking an eyebrow. “Sure.”

Geoff watches Ray look at Michael then back to Geoff, as if the boy could object to the two of them being alone after class. Geoff catches Michael’s eyes with a neutral expression and tilts his head to the classroom door as if to say, gently, “go on, then.” After a moment, Michael does--frowning and slinging his bag over his shoulder as he crosses to the door.

Ray joins Geoff at his desk.

“What’s up, Mr. Ramsey?”

“Just a second,” Geoff says, holding up a hand, watching the other students file out. When they’re gone, he heaves a sigh and begins.

“Ray, I don’t want to ambush you, but I have a message from a friend who doesn’t know how else to contact you,” Geoff says.

Ray frowns deeply at that, stays silent.

“Do you know who I’m talking about?”

Ray’s face is flushed. He nods.

“Did you know he’s in town to see you?”

“What?”

Geoff watches a parade of emotions flash by on Ray’s face. Confusion, a smile he chokes back, another frown.

“I’m not trying to… get in your business. Or tell you what to do,” Geoff says, searching for the right words. “But you might try taking at least one of his calls.”

“Fuck, Mr. Ramsey,” Ray says, the words tumbling out of him now, “Have you seen him? He’s here?”

“Yeah, we’ve uh. Spent some time together,” Geoff says. “He’s been here for a week at least.”

“Goddamn it,” Ray says, rubbing the back of his neck. “So he told you, you know--of course you know, why else would you be--. God _damn_ it, Ryan.”

Ray’s shaking his head and starting to pace.

“Ray,” Geoff says, trying to be soothing. “It’s ok--”

He puts a hand on Ray’s shoulder, and his student turns to him. His eyes are watering, a little wild--Geoff’s never seen him get emotional, and the look on his face makes Geoff want to tuck Ray into his chest and blabber about how deeply Ryan cares for him. Instead, he puts his other hand on Ray’s other shoulder and says calmly, “Just take his call. Hear him out.”

Ray breaks eye contact and nods.

“What a fucking shitshow,” Ray says, his voice graveley.

Geoff puffs a laugh through his nose.

“Yeah, seems like it’s been a weird semester for us all,” he says.

“I don’t know how the fuck you and Michael do it,” Ray says--and as much as Geoff wants to cut him off there, the words continue to stream out of Ray. “You’re so composed, you just see each other and that’s it, no drama, and I can’t even--”

He’s interrupted by Geoff’s laughter, high and uncontrollable, and Geoff is laughing so hard that he has to press an arm across his own stomach, doubling over.

“Oh my god, Ray, no drama? Have you even _met_ Michael?” Geoff manages to choke out. “That’s adorable--that… that’s really a good one, christ.” Geoff wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. It’s broken the tension enough for Ray to let himself smile, even if it’s crooked and a bit ironic.

“Do you need me to write a pass for Heyman?” Geoff offers. Something dark passes behind Ray’s eyes.

“That’s ok,” he says finally, gulping back what might be tears. “Sorry you had to get involved in this but, uh. Thanks, Mr. Ramsey.”

“You got it,” Geoff says.

Ray looks lost as he heads out of the room and Geoff heaves a sigh.

\---

When Michael is on the other side of the English classroom door, he shoos Gavin off.

“Tell Burns I’ll be late,” he says. Gavin rolls his eyes and nods, heading towards their next class. Michael hangs by the door. Students file out, go off to their respective classes. Michael pretends to be examining something in a notebook until the hallway clears and the bell for the next class rings.

He can’t hear anything from inside Geoff’s class, so he finally hazards a look through the window.

Geoff and Ray are standing at the front of the class, talking. Ray starts shaking his head, pacing. Whatever is happening, Geoff looks utterly out of his depth. Michael looks on as Geoff catches Michael’s friend by the shoulder. They share some sort of meaningful look, Geoff placing his other hand on Ray. Geoff says something and Ray looks down at the floor.

The fuck?

Michael takes a break from his spying, not wanting to press his luck, but suddenly he hears peals of Geoff’s laughter from the classroom. After another moment, Ray is opening the door, flinging himself headlong into the hallway and looking close to crying.

“Ray, wait up,” Michael says, padding after him.

“Michael? What the fuck,” Ray says, spinning to face him.

“What was that?” Michael asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Ramsey wanted me to know I’m gonna make a D in his class unless I ace the final,” Ray says, not missing a beat. Whatever was in his face when he first left the classroom is gone now. Michael knows that he’s lying.

“Guess you’d better study with me some for real this weekend, then,” Michael says.

“Guess so,” Ray says. “See you at lunch.”

Ray strides away

Michael crams his hands into his pockets, speed-walking towards Burns’ classroom. When he arrives, he ignores Gavin and Kerry, collapsing down into a chair and texting Geoff.

>>Michael: What’s up with Ray?

He assumes Geoff will explain whatever’s going on, and when the reply comes back, Michael frowns deeply.

>>Geoff: Just had a question about his last essay.

He doesn’t need to see Geoff’s face to know it’s a lie. If it had been the truth, Ray’s story would’ve matched up.

The fuck was going on.

\---

Geoff would like to tell Michael the truth--and admittedly it feels bad to lie to him, even if it’s harmless. But it’s not Geoff’s story to tell. He’s probably already made a mistake getting as involved in the situation as he is, and he’s certainly not about to fuck it up more by involving Michael. He assures himself that Michael will accept the excuse and the point will fall by the wayside--a non-event.

\---

Geoff’s more than a little shocked, then, when Michael comes pushing into his classroom during seventh period.

Geoff is in the back of the room, pulling books and mulling over lesson plans when Michael walks in.

“Uh, hey Michael,” he says. “You’re not free this period. Don’t you have--”

“Yeah, Spanish,” Michael says, tossing his bag onto a nearby desk and crossing the room to his teacher. “I skipped it.”

“What the hell?” Geoff says. “It’s your last day before the final. You don’t need to be--”

“What the fuck is up with you and Ray?”

The look in Michael’s eyes is electric.

“Why do you ask?” Geoff says, treading lightly. He puts the books down and stands up to give Michael his full attention.

“You lied to me,” Michael says. “Both of you did. I want to know why.”

Geoff sighs. Michael has him in a corner.

“There’s a good reason, and I promise that it has nothing to do with you, Michael,” Geoff says gently.

“It has something to do with me now,” Michael says, the frustration apparent in his voice.

“That’s true,” Geoff says with all the deference he can muster up. “You’re right.”

“So, what the fuck then?”

“I was passing on a message to Ray from someone else, ok?” Geoff says. “Anything more than that, and I’m wading into territory that seriously has nothing to do with either one of us.”

“Jesus Christ, you and Ray are truly two peas in a pod,” Michael says.

“Somebody trusted me with a secret, Michael,” Geoff says, trying to be gentle, trying to soothe him. “They told me in confidence. I have to respect that.”

“Even with me?” Michael says.

“If knowing more about the situation would benefit you in _any way_ Michael, I’d tell you,” Geoff says.   
  
“Fine,” Michael says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’m still not happy about… whatever’s going on.”

\---

Michael watches Geoff assess him.

The explanation doesn’t make Michael any better, although somewhere he knows his logical brain is working to catch up with his emotions. He’s probably blown whatever happened out of proportion, he knows. It’ll just take a minute for him to stop being mad about it, since he’s still got no resolution.

A crooked smile crosses Geoff’s face.

“Since I can’t tell you that secret, how about I tell you a different one,” Geoff says. “And then you scram to Sorola’s class before you get in trouble.”

“Fine,” Michael says again. Geoff pauses for a moment. He looks epicly exhausted, like a picture of himself in October back when he wasn’t sleeping, his chin tilted down and his eyes heavy-hooded. He looks like he’s about to say something profound.

“Have I ever told you how _very_ good you look when you’re mad at me?”

“Yes,” Michael says, “and that had better not be the secret.”

“You remember I said I’d take you to visit a school, if you wanted?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “I have a tentative trip scheduled with Ray, as far as my parents are concerned.”

“Great. I’m taking you to visit Coastal, where I used to teach,” Geoff says with a smile. “But pack for a few nights--I fully intend on getting lost in the mountains on the way there.”

Michael hitches an eyebrow at him.

“With Washington’s unpredictable weather, I wouldn’t be surprised if we ended up stranded at a ridiculously picturesque cabin for a few nights,” Geoff says. “You know. For safety.”

“Seriously, Geoff?”

“I mean, I’m no weatherman.”

“Don’t you fucking toy with me, Geoff.”

“Yeah, fuck, calm down,” Geoff says, smiling. “Seriously.”

“Goddamn it,” Michael says, catching Geoff around the ribs, forcing him into a hug.

“Hey, Christ, come on, my school clothes,” Geoff jokes, pretending to resist for a moment before hugging him back, relaxing into the touch.

The classroom door clicks open and they explode apart like two opposing magnets.

Headmaster Hullum appears in the doorway, head first as he peers into the room. Michael feels like he’s been ejected off the earth and into space, all the oxygen gone from the room.

Had Hullum seen them?

The look on his face is cool and neutral, but the man was never one to show his cards. He could’ve just as easily seen them as not.

“Ramsey,” he says, nodding at Geoff. “Jones.”

“Hi, Mr. Hullum,” Michael says, finding his voice, attempting to be nonchalant. Geoff hasn’t said anything and Hullum is walking into the room now. Michael turns back to Geoff and frowns as if to communicate _say something._ Geoff’s gone white, but he clears his throat at Michael’s prompting.

“What can I do for you, Headmaster?”

“I stopped by to see your new decor,” Hullum says, positioning himself in front of a poster, not looking at either of them. “I heard you kids did quite a job and wanted to see for myself.”

He moves to the next poster before continuing. There’s a pregnant pause.

“You two in a meeting? Don’t let me interrupt,” he says.

Michael turns to Geoff but the other man looks like he’s drowning. Jesus Christ, Michael thinks to himself. Had Geoff never been in trouble a day in his life? He sucks at acting casual.

“Anyway, like I was saying,” Michael says loudly. “The dramatic arc with Reverend Hale is definitely shorter--but if you reframe the narrative with his story in mind instead of Proctor’s, it’s a classic tragicomedy.”

“It’s, uh,” Geoff chokes out.

There’s a pause. Michael could sock Geoff in the jaw.

“Do you think that’s a compelling enough idea to run with for my next essay?” Michael says, his eyes pleading with Geoff. _Just give me something to work with Geoff, for the love of God. I can’t bullshit enough for the both of us._

“I guess it would depend on, uh,” Geoff begins. Michael watches as Geoff’s eyes keep shooting back to Hullum. _Look at me goddamn it. You’re blowing it._

“Mr. Ramsey,” Michael says, trying to ground Geoff with his voice.

“It would depend on what you’re trying to prove with the essay, Jones,” Geoff says. “It’s unlikely that you could prove Miller’s intent without pulling from a variety of other texts, which vastly exceeds the scope of the assignment. But if you wanted to approach it strictly from a lit crit point of view, I think you could argue the tragicomedy angle.”

 _Thank god,_ Michael thinks.

“I mean, I get that,” Michael continues, and they’re working up a rhythm now. Maybe they’ll survive this moment after all. Michael is almost able to ignore Hullum behind him, and Geoff is making steady eye contact with him now instead of constantly looking back to the headmaster like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“I’d outline Proctor’s plotline and explain how it’s a true tragedy,” Michael says, picking the conversation back up effortlessly, just trying to ride out the moment. “Then I’d outline Hale’s plot, explain how it represents a tragicomedy, and compare the two. I could argue which one I think is the more effective example of storytelling, maybe.”

“I like that,” Geoff says. “Go with that. I have a few books about criticism that might help you. Let me see if they’re still back here.”

Hullum steps into Michael’s view.

“Never seen you so interested in English, Jones,” he says, flat. “That’s a nice change.”

“We’ve never had a teacher like Mr. Ramsey, I guess,” Michael says, being utterly truthful. Behind Hullum, Geoff is making the gravest face Michael’s ever witnessed.

“Well,” Hullum says, stopping in front of the poster of Geoff. “I’ve heard nothing but good things, Ramsey. Make sure you make it to the next staff meeting, will you? I don’t see enough of you around.”

“Of course,” Geoff says. “I’m sorry about that, I just--”

“No explanation needed,” Hullum says, cold now. “Just make sure you’re there.”

He turns to leave.

“You both have a good winter break, if I don’t see you next week,” Hullum says, giving them one last look before he exits the classroom.

“Thanks! You too,” Michael says, injecting a healthy dose of cheer into his tone.

Geoff sits silent as a rock and watches Hullum leave, dumbfounded.

When the door clicks behind the school’s headmaster, they both strain to hear his footsteps.

“Holy. Fucking. Dogshit,” Michael whispers. “You almost blew that, you know. You almost blew that big time.”

“Jesus Christ, Michael,” Geoff says, his head in his hands, massaging his temples. “Could you please just fucking graduate already? My heart can’t take this shit.”

“Did he see us?”

“Fuck if I know, Michael!” Geoff says, his voice cracking. “Jeeeeesus.”

“I mean, he seemed pretty chill, right?” Michael says, reassuring himself as much as asking a question. “He didn’t seem like he saw anything.”

“Who knows with that guy,” Geoff says. “He scares the shit out of me, truly. I guess we’ll have our answer Monday, if I still have a fucking job.”

“Don’t even joke,” Michael says. “I’m sure… he didn’t see anything, Geoff. He would’ve said something. No way would he have just walked around staring at posters and torturing us.”

But as soon as he says it, Michael realizes that is entirely within the realm of something that someone as weirdly intimidating as Headmaster Hullum might do.

“We’re boned, aren’t we,” Michael says. “Are we boned?”

“We’re not boned,” Geoff says, calmly. “We weren’t kissing each other or anything truly objectionable. Let’s just… lie low, ok? No more dates in the library, no more skipping class to come yell at me. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Michael’s about to leave when Geoff catches him by the shoulder.

“That essay topic you just bullshitted your way through sounds great, by the way,” he says.

“To be honest Geoff, the fact that stuff like that just flows outta me now is really troubling,” Michael says.

“Yeah, you’re starting to sound like an English major,” Geoff says with a smug smile. “Always cool under pressure, too. Sometimes I forget that in your spare time you’re a small-time hustler.”

“Hey,” Michael says with a frown. “Nothin’ small-time about me, don’t be rude.”

\---

When the bell rings dismissing class for the day, Geoff feels like a man who survived a firing squad.

It began snowing during the last period, and as Geoff exits the building into the muted flurries, there’s something about the distorted quality of the sunlight that reminds him of the summer when he was 16, when the sun’s rays would turn the wrong color and the angles felt all wrong through the smoke of Alabama forest fires when he’d leave his grandpa’s house at the end of the day.

He feels the memory viscerally: that summer half a lifetime ago when he started to be alone and could never seem to shake off the feeling.

\---

He stops at the drugstore on the way home and buys two bags of bite-sized candy, one Snickers, the other Reese’s cups.

He starts eating them in the car, before he even gets home.

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

“I’m curious,” Hullum says, “about your relationship with Michael Jones.”

It takes real effort for Geoff not to bite through his own tongue.

It’s a nightmare come to life: Geoff watching his life fall apart from the vantage point of a large leather chair in the headmaster’s office, thoughts churning and boiling at a pace that is instantly dizzying.

“Sure,” Geoff says. He’s not sure if it takes him a few seconds or a few minutes to form the word. It feels like hours have passed. “What about it?”

“When I stopped by during seventh period on Friday, I wasn’t expecting you to have any students. Checked Jones’ schedule when I got back here and saw that he was supposed to be in Spanish.”

“I didn’t know that,” Geoff lies. The light in the office is too bright, the silence deafening. Can Hullum hear him breathing? Can Hullum see his heartbeat--because it’s roaring like goddamn rapids in Geoff’s ears. “I guess I’m not familiar enough with his schedule. I know he’s skipped my class before even when he’s on campus. I can tell him not to make a habit of it.”

“Hm,” Hullum says. The accusation is coming, Geoff can tell, as the headmaster gazes out his window. “So he skipped Spanish to come talk to you about an essay topic?”

“Apparently,” Geoff says. Christ, Hullum’s just toying with him now. Geoff begins to steel himself for the inevitable. It was a good run, it was nice while it lasted, at least it’s just his career and the love of his life and he won’t, say, go to prison. “You said it yourself--Michael has been very interested in literature this semester. Very engaged, at least in my class.”

“Is that why his arms were around you when I walked by your classroom door?”

The invisible noose tightens around Geoff’s neck. It’s the moment he’s waited for all semester. It’s the point he’s been waiting for someone to make since he laid eyes on Michael fucking Jones in the first row of his classroom on the first day of his high school teaching career.

Geoff has got nothing to say in his defense--what could he say? Why were Michael’s arms around him when Hullum came by? Well, you see boss, it all started in the bathroom of this bar in Spokane...

The office is suddenly twenty degrees too hot. He tries to feel peaceful, tries to utilize all of those hours he’s spent anticipating this moment. The end.

Geoff has nothing to say. He prepares to be fired.

“Ramsey, each class here has fewer than 60 students. I get to know them all--each student--better than they realize,” Hullum says. He pauses, holding eye contact with Geoff.

“What are you getting at?” Geoff ventures, trying not to sound like he’s on the defensive. He can feel Hullum’s oblique drive towards a point.

“Michael Jones has been a tough nut to crack,” Hullum says. “His grades have always been all over the place, and he almost failed out of tenth. Remedial work all summer.”

“I didn’t know that,” Geoff says honestly.

Where the fuck is Hullum going with this?

“His grades are the best they’ve ever been this semester,” Hullum says. “Same teachers, same school, same student. The only variable is you.”

Geoff’s heart is pounding. Is Hullum firing him or paying him a compliment?

“He’s enamored with your class, obviously,” Hullum says. “And whether you’ve noticed it or not, he’s enamored with you.”

Geoff sits like a statue. He thinks of Buddhist monks. He thinks of ancient glaciers. He thinks of the vastness of space. Anything to keep his face neutral.

“His only free period is after lunch,” Hullum continues. “See to it that he doesn’t make his way to your classroom on time borrowed from other teachers again.”

The order is given gently, and for the first time that Geoff has ever seen, Hullum breaks into a cool smile. Geoff briefly wonders if he’s dreaming. Hullum saw them together and somehow Geoff’s not getting fired.

“I know it’s your first year here, Ramsey, so let me give you a piece of advice,” he says. “It’s flattering when a student loves your class or gets stuck on you--especially when you’re young. But we have rules about texting and social media and outside contact for a reason. It’s easy to forget that they’re just kids. You start to make friendships with them, they start to rely on you more and more and it’s easy to let those lines blur.”

“I understand,” Geoff says, aware of the fact that he hasn’t said anything in too long.

“It’s wonderful that you’ve found something that gets Jones engaged with his work. And it’s always encouraging when a student wants a teacher to be his mentor. Just remember at the end of the day, you’re the adult. And from what I saw on Friday, you might need to make that _very_ explicit with Jones,” Hullum says. “I’ve never seen him warm up to a teacher like he has to you. Keep an eye on him.”

\---

Geoff is shaking when he leaves the office, shutting Hullum’s door behind himself.

\---

The morning had been a blur. He woke up to a call from Burnie, reminding him that there was a staff-wide meeting in the cantina 45 minutes before school started.

Geoff hadn’t known the first thing about it.

He’d pulled on clothes and been out the door feeling more disheveled than usual but eternally grateful for Burnie’s existence. Nobody noticed his appearance or stress as he joined the stream of teachers and staff members entering the cantina. Gus saved him a seat.

“Thank Christ for you Burnie,” Geoff had said, leaning over to regard his friend.

“The next round’s on you, Ramsey,” Burnie said. “I figured you’d have forgotten by now.”

In truth, Geoff had never even known about the meeting to begin with, not understanding that it was mandatory for all staff. Monday marked the first day of final exams for all of their students, and the schedule was staggered so that students were only expected to take one or two tests each day. Geoff’s class didn’t have a final exam--just an essay due that week--and though he’d told his classes that he’d hold open hours in his classroom all week, he didn’t have any sort of strict schedule to adhere to. Even with Hullum’s grave reminder on Friday that he’d missed the last mandatory meeting, Geoff had simply assumed that the next meeting wouldn’t be until the start of the spring semester.

And, as the only new teacher there that year, Geoff had apparently been off the radar for anyone who might’ve warned him.

\---

After the meeting, Geoff had begun to file out, flanked by Burnie and Gus, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Hullum.

“Ramsey,” Hullum said, toneless, “Glad to see you made it.”

“Yes sir,” Geoff had said. “Thanks for your reminder last week.”

“I’d like to speak to you for a moment,” Hullum said, not taking his hand off Geoff’s shoulder. “Let’s walk and talk.”

Geoff didn’t miss Gus and Burnie exchanging a serious glance as the headmaster guided him away from the crowd.

\---

Hullum was seemingly unaffected by the cold as they crossed the campus away from the cantina and towards his office in the administrative building. It was actively snowing, flurries floating by the two men, and Hullum kept a leisurely pace.

He’d asked Geoff how he was adjusting to teaching high school, what sort of plans he had for the next semester. It had all been small talk until they reached his office, Hullum sitting Geoff down for… whatever that discussion had been.

\---

By the time Geoff makes it back to his own classroom, he’s gotten himself calmed down.

He has no idea, however, what to do about Michael.

They’d spent the weekend apart, Michael doing his mandatory solo studying. It hadn’t been so bad. They’d shared a few phone calls, a bit of texting back and forth when Michael needed a break from his studies. Honestly, Geoff had been impressed with how dedicated Michael seemed to be, and Michael confessed that the promise of a trip together had proven a good motivator.

Neither of them acknowledged the confrontation with Hullum on Friday. The elephant in the room.

Geoff had eventually talked himself into believing that Hullum hadn’t seen them and that the visit had been completely innocent. Which was, he now knows, only half true.

Thank Christ Hullum gave Geoff the benefit of the doubt, although Geoff can admit to himself that he has no idea why the man’s opinion of him is so high. He’s guilty of everything Hullum warned him against--and much, much goddamn more.

The realization feels like tar in Geoff’s throat and he decides to file the feeling away for another time. Right now he needs to deal with Michael.

Geoff can guess that the boy is likely making a beeline for his classroom. He’d like to text Michael to tell him to stay the fuck away for the day, but Michael has a European History test this morning and the last thing Geoff wants to do is to distract Michael or make him nervous.

Geoff laces his fingers on top of his desk and waits, silently willing Michael to stay away.

\---

What a shitty weekend.

Michael can’t recall a time when he’s been so frustrated with every aspect of his life. He’s got a car, but he’s forced to stay at home and study. He’s doing great in his classes but he still feels like he’s in trouble with everyone. He’s got… whatever it is that Geoff is--yet reality is such that he still has to go goddamn weeks at a time without spending a moment alone with him.

And then there is the whole business with Hullum.

Michael hadn’t mentioned it on the phone at all to Geoff over the weekend, but it weighed heavy on his mind. If Hullum had seen them, he’d definitely be saying something to Geoff about it. He didn’t tell Geoff a damn thing about the headmaster because he hadn’t wanted to freak the man out--but Hullum was not one to just ‘wait and see how things developed.’

If he’d seen them, Michael knows, Hullum would already have a game plan.

A game plan that may or may not involve firing Geoff.

And Geoff’s joke about finding out on Monday, Michael knows, is more truth than joke. Whether Geoff understands that or not.

So he minimizes contact with Geoff. There’s no sense in freaking out the other man for no reason.

Freaking out himself, however. Well, that was absolutely on the table.

In between studying--or while he was studying, when he allowed his mind to drift--Michael found himself replaying the highlights of his relationship with Geoff. Where they’d started, all of the missteps--and, more recently, the comfort he’d found. The myriad ways his own life had changed since Geoff had stepped into it.

What the fuck would he do, then, if Geoff really did lose his job because of Michael?

There was nowhere else in town for the man to work. He’d have to move away. That was just the reality of the situation.

Michael stopped his thinking there each time.

If Geoff moves away… He has a hard time remembering what Chewelah was like without Geoff.

Time used to pass so slowly. He and Ray whittling down hours. Ignoring schoolwork. Kerry and Gavin tagging behind in the school year. So much has changed--and Ray isn’t around like he used to be. Kerry and Gavin have largely forgotten he exists--Michael’s own fault, he realizes.

He’s counting on Geoff to help him figure out college. Christ, to help him figure out every goddamn thing.

If Geoff moves away?

He won’t let himself think about it. He throws himself into his studies and tries to keep the dark worry out of his voice when he talks to Geoff.

It doesn’t escape him that this could be their last weekend in the same city, and they’re spending it goddamn apart because of his stupid finals. It motivates him to do as well as he can--he won’t miss out on this weekend for C’s--and he lies to Geoff, saying he’s looking forward to their trip.

Not a care in the world, right? That’s his role. Leave the worrying to Geoff.

It’s impossible, though, and at night Michael dreams of Geoff’s life packed again into cardboard boxes.

\---

Somehow, Michael ignores the magnetic draw of Geoff’s classroom on Monday morning.

There is nothing he’d enjoy more than to fight against the snow and tumble into the warm, bright room, to barricade the door and fold himself into Geoff’s arms, consequences be damned.

But he knows absolutely that it would be the wrong thing to do.

And he allows himself to hope that no news is good news, that Geoff didn’t come in and unlock his classroom only to find a letter of termination.

Michael ignores all of it and heads straight to the classroom where his final will be held.

A few students are there studying already and he lets their presence distract him, trying to cram the last few details in before the test.

\---

The European History exam ends up being mostly essay questions--and for the first time in Michael’s entire life, he’s _happy_ about that fact. It’s become easier than ever before, this semester, for Michael to put his thoughts down into words, and he finds himself feeling at ease as he works his way through the test.

He’s able to forget, for an hour or so, the reality he and Geoff may need to face today. And when he turns the sheets in, covered in his messy writing, he knows that he’s at the very least demonstrated enough knowledge to earn him a B.

The exam is his only one for the day, and he’s allowed to leave campus when it’s over. He stands outside of his classroom for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of visiting Geoff before he makes his exit. He hasn’t heard the first thing from the other man today.

Finally, the curiosity and fear inside of him is too much and, cramming his hands into his pocket, he makes his way across campus to Geoff’s building.

\---

Michael doesn’t show up until the early afternoon, and when he walks in he looks rough. The skin around his eyes is so dark it almost looks bruised, and his eyes seem wary as he approaches the door.

Geoff shouldn’t be happy to see him, all things considered.

Still, he can’t help but smile.

Michael steps in, hugging himself for warmth, rubbing the back of his neck, looking strained and suddenly young.

“Hey Mr. Ramsey,” Michael says, greeting him in a strangely neutral tone, acting formal even though there’s no one around to put a show on for. “Mind if I warm up here for a minute before I head out?”

“Sure, Michael,” Geoff says. There’s definitely something up with him. “You ok? How was your first exam?”

“It actually went fine,” Michael says. “If they’re all like that I’m set.”

He chews his bottom lip and examines Geoff. Geoff takes a draw off of his lukewarm coffee and allows Michael whatever time he needs to say what he came by for.

“Hullum talk to you?” Michael asks, finally.

“Yeah,” Geoff says. “Called me into his office this morning.”

“So he saw,” Michael says, his face falling.

“He saw,” Geoff says. “But I’m not fired.”

“So… how did that go down?” Michael says, his posture rigid.

“He’s giving me the benefit of the doubt, I guess,” Geoff says. “Said I need to… better delineate the boundary between student and teacher.”

“Meaning?”

“He thinks you have a somewhat dangerous crush on me,” Geoff says.

“He’s not wrong,” Michael says, giving Geoff the slightest smile--the first hint of Michael being himself he’s had since the boy walked in. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” Geoff says. “But we should make this meeting short, and you need to do everything you can not to end up in my lap.”

“Roger that,” Michael says. “What about tonight?”

“What about it?” Geoff asks.

“Could I come over for a few hours?”

Geoff considers it.

“If your studying is done and your parents won’t be mad, sure,” Geoff says.

“Six ok?”

“Seriously Michael, if you’re not done studying this can wait.”

“I’ll be done studying,” Michael says, his eyes flashing a bit. It’s almost worth ribbing him just to get him to be himself, Geoff thinks.

“Fine, I trust you,” Geoff says. “See you at six, then.”

They heave twin sighs and Geoff fights the urge to give Michael even a chaste hug. Michael crosses in front of him towards the door. One hand on the frame, he turns to Geoff.

“Are you not freaking out right now, or are you just getting better at hiding it?” he asks.

“A little bit of column A, a little bit of column B,” Geoff admits.

With that, Michael’s gone.

\---

Geoff makes them a modest dinner after school--pasta primavera--selecting produce from his pantry and chopping it, blanching it, working up a simple sauce with cheese and olive oil and cracked pepper before boiling a box of fusilli.

He lets his mind wander, thinking about the next semester and idly selecting texts from his mental catalogue that might work nicely. He thinks about the Dan Simmons book sitting in his arm chair, wondering if it will pick up soon or if it will be a trudge. He lets himself even think about going to the mountains in a few days, about visiting Coastal again.

Against all odds, he feels good.

\---

At school, Geoff had looked like he was handling it well.

Michael, on the other hand, realizes that he’s absolutely losing it.

Whatever had gone down with Hullum would be the beginning of the end for them. There was no way Geoff would keep his shit together for long.

Michael tries to put himself into Geoff’s frame of mind, tries to imagine what it would be like to be twelve years older and the type of person who extrapolates every small detail out into the worst case scenario. It’s getting easier and easier, Michael realizes, for him to see the world the way Geoff might see it.

Or, Michael thinks, maybe it’s the first time he’s been able to get out of his own selfish head and see what type of risks Geoff was taking to be with him. It wasn’t a nice picture, now that he had stepped back enough to see it all. If someone found them out--and Hullum really had, technically, although Geoff’s decent reputation had kept them from disaster for now--if someone found them out completely, Michael would be treated like a victim and ushered off to college. Meanwhile Geoff would be fired, disgraced--ruined.

It’s a real effort for him to get his studying done for the next day’s math exam, but somehow he gets himself to do it. There’s not much left to do, either, since he’d been sequestered off in his room all weekend with nothing better to take his mind off of his stresses but studying.

By 5, Michael forces himself to strip off his clothes and step into a steaming shower. He’s not used to dealing with this level of self-loathing and if he’s honest with himself, it’s exhausting. _No wonder Geoff drinks like a fish,_ Michael thinks to himself. He’d pour himself something now if he had it.

Half an hour later, he’s dressed and saying goodbye to his parents, begging off of dinner with them to go “spend some time studying with Ray.” Michael offers up a silent thanks to whatever god might be listening that they weren’t hassling him about staying home on the night before an exam.

On the drive to Geoff’s he steels himself for whatever he might find in the other man’s apartment. Michael’s got his money on drunk Geoff. There’s no way that, left alone with his thoughts all afternoon, Geoff wouldn’t have talked himself into the worst case scenario. At the very least, they could commiserate for a few hours before he had to go back to his parents’.

\---

Geoff answers the door with a smile on his face, pulling Michael inside before the boy has a chance to say anything, and planting a kiss on his lips. The apartment is warm and smells like onions, garlic. Something is simmering on the stove. Geoff holds Michael an arm’s length away for a moment and Michael peers into his face. There’d been no trace of whiskey in that kiss, and Geoff’s admittedly sleepy gaze is alert and sober.

It almost gives Michael a feeling of vertigo.

Geoff lets go of him, still smiling, and returns to the kitchen.

“We didn’t talk about whether or not you’d want dinner,” Geoff says, stirring something. “So I erred on the side of dinner. Are you hungry?”

“Sure, yeah,” Michael says. “I could eat.”

Michael strips off his coat, hanging it by the door, and sets his bag down by the bed. He lets himself fall hard down to the bed and he watches Geoff, humming and busy in the kitchen. He recognizes the tune Geoff is humming from the mix he’d made the other man.

“Are you OK, Geoff?”

“Yeah, of course,” Geoff says, turning to him. “What’s up?”

“I guess I just expected you to be freaking out,” Michael says.

“Why?” Geoff asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Hullum!” Michael says, exasperated. “Fucking Friday! The whole thing!”

Geoff puffs a laugh through his nose.

“Christ, I never thought I’d see you mad at me for being less uptight,” Geoff says. “Here, make a plate and I’ll tell you about our meeting.”

\---

As they eat, Geoff recounts the entire exchange--how Hullum had slowly revealed his hand to Geoff, insinuated that Michael was probably feeling some decidedly inappropriate emotions about his relationship with his teacher, and how Hullum had adeptly woven compliments into his advice to Geoff about keeping his distance.

“So that doesn’t freak out you?” Michael asks, as Geoff concludes the story.

“I guess I’m too busy being relieved that he didn’t terminate me,” Geoff says, shrugging one shoulder. “Do you think I should be freaking out more, Michael?”

“No, I just… I thought you’d be a mess over this,” Michael says.

“I’ve got enough other shit to be a mess over,” Geoff says.

“I guess so,” Michael says. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Nothing we weren’t doing before,” Geoff says. “You keep your grades up. We don’t do anything stupid at school. Hullum doesn’t walk in on us blurring the line between teacher and student again. I think it’s straightforward.”

“So did you just run out of anxiety, or?”

“Maybe,” Geoff says. “I guess I did. I mean, apparently I’m a decent high school teacher. Apparently I didn’t ruin your life, because you’re doing better in school than ever before as far as Hullum’s concerned. Apparently I’m capable of being a part of your life without completely wrecking it.” Geoff takes a bite of his pasta. “Maybe I can throttle back on the self loathing for a week or so.”

“Christ, Geoff,” Michael says, pushing back from the makeshift table. “I’ve been a fucking mess over this. I thought you’d be through with me.”

“Michael,” Geoff says, sounding sore. “Are you kidding me? Christ, come here you moron,” he says, scooting back from the low table, sitting on the edge of his bed, and holding out his arms. Michael still feels wary accepting the touch after preparing himself for too many days to receive bad news. Still, he moves around the table and lets Geoff pull him down into the larger man’s lap. Geoff slings his arms around him, and Michael feels the other man bury his face into Michael’s neck.

“Fucking think I’d be through with you,” Geoff says softly. “Christ. I’m not that big of an asshole.”

“I just wouldn’t have blamed you,” Michael says.

“That’s fucked up,” Geoff says, chiding him. “You really think I could abandon you that easily?”

“It’s not abandoning me if you’re just trying to survive,” Michael says. “I know this whole thing could ruin you.”

There’s a long pause as Geoff holds him and simply breathes. Michael wonders what’s going on in the other man’s head, as he’s wondered many times before.

Michael realizes that there are a choice few things Geoff could tell him at this point that might put his heart at ease. _I love you,_ perhaps, or _being without you would ruin me more than getting fired._ Maybe _you’re worth the risk, Michael._

“Look,” Geoff says, finally. “I appreciate you taking my job into consideration. And I definitely think we’ve gotten too comfortable at school together. But just let me handle this, OK Michael?”

It’s not what he needed. But he can’t hold it against Geoff.

“Sure thing, boss,” Michael says, leaning lightly into the other man.

But as Geoff kisses him, deeply and sweetly, Michael has a hard time feeling anything but guilt.

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

When Geoff was in high school, it used to bother him to see his English teachers holding onto old copies of ratted-up paperback books.

Each teacher seemed to have at least one in their repertoire: a book so old and decrepit that its yellow pages were held together by countless layers of tape and grime. Or not held together at all. Some were so broken that the book needed to be laid out flat and each page turned individually.

Why not, Geoff always wondered, just buy the same damn copy the class was reading? Why not only hang onto these odd relics, but also parade them in front of your class each week?

It’s more understandable now, with Geoff on the other side of the teacher’s desk.

He holds a copy of a book in his hands, feeling the familiar weight. You don’t forget the subtle nuances of an object that you’ve cradled in your hands for hours and hours, on buses and in the back seats of cars, over lunches and--later--whiskeys.

His copy of the Joyce novel isn’t as bad as some of the books he’d seen teachers use in high school--but then again, Geoff is only 30. Given more time, he’d probably always keep the same copy.

His time with this book, though, is about to come to an end.

Geoff knows, now, that treasuring these old crippled books is about much more than holding onto your glory days with a random relic you’ve assigned value to.

This book is less an object to Geoff and more a place. It’s a place he’s visited many times throughout his life, and each time he has learned more about who he is, what his purpose is.

Geoff flips through it one last time.

Each page is heavily annotated and looking at his scrawlings are like looking at rings in the cross section of a tree. This note he wrote in pencil the first time he’d read the book. This note he’d added some time during college. This note he’d jotted when he was a professor.

He’d expected giving up the book to be bittersweet, but it’s not.

He’s almost nervous to wrap the thing, using extreme caution and applying as little flimsy tape as he can while still getting the paper to stick. The obnoxious Christmas hues don’t even look bad next to the bright green jacket of the paperback.

The book was Geoff’s first profound experience with literature. Perhaps Michael, he thinks, had the same experience with East of Eden. The language and the concepts had started so foreign, and then Geoff had found his stride with the work--the words and the pages opening up in front of him, the narrative so vivid and nuanced that suddenly, for the first time in more than a year, Geoff had not felt alone.

He knew, probably for the first time since his early adolescence, that someone understood him.

And looking back at that day when he was 17--he can still recall it clearly, tearing down the halls of the school to find his English teacher, half-crying and half-laughing, full of questions--he knows now that it felt almost exactly like falling in love. But boiled down, faster, completely separate from anxiety and frustration.

That was literature.

That was why Geoff became the man that he is now. And so, he thinks, the gift is not an object that he’s passing on to Michael. It’s an insight. It’s himself, maybe, wrapped up in drug store paper and off-brand tape.

And somehow, for the first time maybe, Geoff knows that Michael will _get it_. That he won’t need an explanation.

Geoff’s never been as excited about Christmas as he is this year.

\---

Exams went mercifully well for Michael.

Sure, he was a bit of a wreck all week--but the churning emotions made him much more likely to throw his effort into studying instead of pining over missed time with Geoff or doing something idle where his mind would be able to wander.

Geoff had kept his cards close to his chest about the trip. Michael fed his parents a story about Ray’s mom taking them to visit relatives near Washington Coastal University. The lie would buy him some extra time with Geoff, even if they _did_ eventually need to go visit the university before heading home.

His parents didn’t ask too many questions. They were just happy Michael was going to see another school, knowing he’d need to start applying soon.

\---

Michael’s last exam is on Thursday, and it’s Spanish. It goes quickly, and Mr. Sorola grades Michael’s exam while he stands there.

“You aced it Michael,” Mr. Sorola says with a crooked smile, handing the final back to him. “I haven’t done the math yet, but I expect that will pull you to an A for the first semester.”

“Seriously?” Michael says.

“Yeah, man,” Sorola says. “I don’t know what happened halfway through the semester, but you pulled that out of nowhere.”

“Well it helps you gave us an easy final,” Michael says. He’s ready to leave the classroom but at the same time he could practically hug Sorola. It’s a huge burden gone now that he’s nailed his exams, that nobody is going to be mad at him with the grades come in.

“Hey, I’m not going to ruin anyone’s holiday,” Sorola says. “I’ll see you next year, Jones.”

“Thanks, Mr. Sorola,” Michael says. “Have a good Christmas. See ‘ya in 2015.”

“Yeah yeah, feliz navidad and all that shit,” Sorola says, waving him off.

\---

Neither of them realizes that Gus will be seeing Michael before the new year.

\---

When Michael gets outside the classroom, he immediately retrieves his phone and texts Geoff.

>>Michael: Another successful semester down in the books, dude

Geoff starts typing back to him after a minute.

>>Geoff: Yeah? So I take it you did well on your last exam?  
>>Michael: Nailed it.   
>>Geoff: I’m really proud of you Michael  
>>Michael: Thanks. I’m heading home--still need to pack.  
>>Geoff: Good. Get some rest. What time can you come over tomorrow?  
>>Michael: What time should I come?  
>>Geoff: Early.  
>>Michael: How early?  
>>Geoff: As dicks dude  
>>Michael: 6 a.m.? 5?  
>>Geoff: Like… as early as you can make it. I’m serious. All you gotta do is show up. You can get in and go right back to sleep and I’ll drive us.

Michael thinks about it for a second. He wishes he could just go straight to Geoff’s tonight and skip sleep altogether, but something about that reeks of how needy he’s feeling. He figures 4 a.m. is a happy medium, and if he packs tonight, all he’ll have to do is wake up and get in the car, right?.

>>Michael: OK. See you at 4 then. Make us coffee?  
>>Geoff: You bet.

\---

Geoff hasn’t had much to do the week of finals other than wait for his trip with Michael. It’s been pleasant, all things considered. And sure, Michael had been shocked that Geoff wasn’t stressing over the situation with Hullum--but truly Geoff was not holding anything back there. He’d faced the headmaster and escaped unscatched. They’d be under the man’s watchful eye in the spring semester, certainly, but now that Michael has a car, there’s no need for them to be sneaking furtive meetings on campus anyway.

And hell, once the spring semester started, it would just be four months until they were free to do whatever the fuck they wanted.

Well.

Maybe not in Chewelah. But Michael would be at college after that, wouldn’t he? No, they couldn’t be out and about and holding goddamn hands in Chewelah the day after graduation, but… Well. They’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

It’s as if, that week, something has clicked into place for Geoff. He’s looking forward to the trip without the normal undercurrent of anxiety that’s pulled behind his eyes since September.

He can remember the way that he felt in The Rooster that first night, the way his body and mind had gone electric as he flirted with the young stranger. It takes effort to get back to that moment, picturing the way that he had seen Michael that night, not knowing a thing about the boy or what the future held for them. He clears his mind and lives the memory, the magnetic pull of the curly-haired stranger, the look in his eyes that made Geoff’s impulse control go utterly haywire.

He’s able to remember who _he_ was that night in the bar when he met Michael, too: the kind of man who isn’t quite an optimist, but isn’t so completely introverted that he’s unable to have fun. The kind of person who would make a guy he just met come in a bathroom stall with a stranger a few feet away, just to see the look on the kid’s face.

It’s a far cry from the high school English teacher who drank himself to sleep all autumn.

Anxiety be damned. Everything be damned. Geoff vows to stop getting in the way of enjoying his time with Michael.

\---

Michael pulls up at 4:08 a.m., looking and feeling wretched. He gawks at Geoff, who is standing in the bone-shatteringly cold, dark parking lot, packing things into the back of his hatchback. He spots Michael immediately and waves at him, grinning and holding up a thermos.

Michael frowns deeply and parks.

When he approaches Geoff, a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the man grabs him by the hip and presses him into a kiss. It must be too early, Michael reasons, for the other man to be worried about public displays of affection.

“Christ it’s early,” Michael says, already almost shaking from the cold. Geoff takes his bag and ushers Michael into the front seat. The car is already running, the engine warm and heat blasting from the AC. Michael pulls the door shut behind himself and Geoff moves to the back of the hatchback, finding a spot for Michael’s bag. Then Geoff is back, bouncing down into the driver’s seat.

He leans over the center console, retrieving items from the back seat.

“Here,” he says, holding a wool blanket out to Michael. Michael accepts it gladly, unfurling it and tucking it around himself. “And some coffee,” Geoff says, offering a thermos. Michael takes it and watches the other man shift the car into gear. Geoff is still smiling.

“How are you even awake,” Michael says. “Did you even go to sleep last night or?”

“Yeah, but I cheated,” Geoff says, easing them out of the parking lot. “I bummed an Ambien off of Burnie and went to bed at seven.”

“Ambien?”

“Yeah, a sleeping pill,” Geoff says. “There’s no other way I was going to rest.”

He throws a look over to Michael before they pull into the street. The older man looks like he’s almost vibrating with happiness--which is, frankly, sickening at this early hour.

“I am so fucking excited, Michael,” he says. “You have no idea.”

“Ugh,” Michael says. “Wake me up with we get there.”

He pulls his beanie low and slouches in the passenger seat.

\---

It takes three and a half hours to get to Leavenworth.

They drive in silence, Geoff letting Michael sleep. The boy wakes briefly as Geoff guides them into a gas station, leaving him in the car while he pees and fuels up.

Geoff speeds liberally. There are no cops on the 155 miles of US-2, and virtually no other traffic so early on a Friday morning.

And although he didn’t plan it, the scene as they pull into Leavenworth is breathtaking. The sun is not quite up, but the indigo of the early morning sky has dissolved gradually into a palette of violets, then pinks, then a deep, burning orange.

They crest a ridge, and Geoff gets his first glimpse of the Wenatchee mountains.

By Washington state standards, it’s not the most incredible part of the range.

But compared to the rolling little lumps that Geoff grew up with in Alabama, the Wenatchee mountains are still a complete mindfuck.

They rise up in the horizon, snow-capped and stark against the sunrise glow, and it makes Geoff’s chest hot and too tight. It’s the kind of thing that made him move to Washington, made him choose Coastal when it was time to choose. Made him feel like there wasn’t a choice, in the end--not really.

It’s the kind of ineffable thing that reminds Geoff that no matter what sorrow, what joy he feels in his lifetime, he is truly just a small collection of cells that will exist for one heartbeat of the earth’s lifetime, that nothing he can say or do or participate in will ever mean a goddamn thing in comparison to the reality of these mountains.

The Cascade Mountains are poetry--plain and simple, realized by nature.

He feels his heart, his lungs, his whole goddamn body open up. It’s as if a weight has been removed from his chest, or the gravity on the entire planet suddenly lessened. As if he’d never breathed air before this moment. It’s the feeling he’s always gets when he first sees mountains after a long absence, but somehow increased by an order of magnitude by the current situation, by the fact that Michael is beside him.

He would like to wake Michael up, to tell him all of this and more. But for now, he’s ok with letting the boy sleep. He’s ok spending the moment with his own mind and with the warm assurance that his passenger is very much there and very much real.

He’s surprised then, when a small voice beside him says, “Goddamn Geoff.”

It shocks him and he looks over, Michael blinking hard and peering out at the sunrise.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Geoff says, unable to put anything more profound into words.

“I don’t think beautiful covers it,” Michael says. “It makes me feel… insignificant. It makes me feel good about feeling insignificant.”

Geoff chuckles deep in his chest.

“Couldn’t have said it better,” Geoff admits.

A warm hand finds Geoff’s over the center console. They drive through Leavenworth.

\---

They’re about five minutes outside of the city when Michael realizes how hungry he is.

“You want to stop for breakfast?” he asks Geoff.

“Sure. It’d be good to stretch my legs for a minute,” he says. “Want me to turn around and head back into Leavenworth?”

“Nah,” Michael says. “Just get off at the next place that looks promising.”

The next place is, apparently, a truck stop with a diner in Cashmere. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but when they push in through the double doors, the interior is strangely reminiscent of Frank’s, back in Kettle Falls.

A hostess (who looks remarkably like she could be from Geoff’s diner) shows them to a table where an older waitress hands them menus.

“Are you… is this… bothering you too?” Michael says, looking at Geoff warily.

“Uncanny fucking valley, dude,” Geoff says.

It only takes a minute with the menu for them both to realize that they’ve made a good choice, though.

“Goddamn, they have an espresso bar in here?” Geoff says, looking down at the laminated menu. “Best news I’ve heard this week. I’m gonna find the bathroom--would you order me an Americano?”

“Sure thing,” Michael says.

He watches Geoff as he rises, stiff legged from the booth, his hands crammed down into the pockets of his leather jacket. Being on vacation with Geoff feels… too good to be true. An honest to god getaway. Nothing to interrupt them. Nobody but Geoff to tell him what to do. It’s almost surreal. Is this what being a free fucking adult was going to feel like all the time?

When the waitress returns, Michael orders two Americanos, not exactly sure what he’s getting into. She’s back in a minute with what looks like two regular cups of coffee, and for a moment Michael is worried that he ordered Geoff the wrong thing.

But when he fixes his up with plenty of cream and sugar and hazards a sip, he realizes that it’s much, much richer and more delicious than normal diner coffee.

Geoff is back after a moment, still smiling and sliding into the booth.

“So,” Geoff says. “We successfully survived our first semester. How’s it feel to be on vacation?”

“Fucking weird,” Michael says. “Like I’m waiting for something bad to happen.”

Geoff frowns.

“Christ Michael,” he says. “I think I’ve scarred you for life with my pessimism. Come on, lighten up. No school for two weeks. The world’s our oyster, right?”

“I guess,” Michael says. “I think I’m going to have to get warmed up to the idea that everything could be ok.”

“Fair enough,” Geoff says.

“Plus I just fucking woke up,” Michael says. “Thanks for driving us, by the way.”

\---

They sit in silence for a minute, Geoff feeling content enough not to try and fill the void up with talk. Michael looks sleepy--and young, he realizes for the millionth time. So fucking young.

There are moments when it’s easy to forget that Michael is 18--usually when he’s talking tough (which was almost any time he had his mouth open, it seemed). But tired out Michael, post-exams Michael, sad Michael, or sleeping Michael… Well. He looks his age, is all. He’s got his head propped up on one fist as he stares out the window. His curls are tufted at the top of his head now that his haircut has mostly grown back in.

“You keep saying ‘we,’ ‘our,’” Michael says, finally breaking the silence. “Like it’s just granted.”

“I guess I do,” Geoff says. “I hope that it is. Just granted, I mean.”

“I’ve spent so many weeks thinking about you and me and being separate,” Michael says, cutting his eyes out the window. “Guess I haven’t made the leap to ‘we’ yet.”

The comment makes Geoff reel a little. Isn’t that what Michael had wanted? Hadn’t he been pushing for them to come together all along?

“What do you mean, Michael?” Geoff asks gently.

He watches Michael chew his bottom lip. He brings the coffee cup up to his lips and when he’s done with the sip, his frown has dissolved behind the mug. He smiles at Geoff now.

“Sorry, that got deep faster than I meant it to,” he says, laughing at himself weakly.

And Geoff wants to press him--to drag that line of thinking out of Michael immediately so they can deal with it if it needs to be dealt with--but before he can, the waitress has arrived to take their order.

When she’s gone, Michael looks like he’s legitimately emerged from whatever dark shadow he’d gotten stuck in a moment ago. He’s beaming at Geoff. Geoff lays his hand across the top of the table, palm up, offering it to Michael.

Michael hitches his eyebrow and tucks his chin, looking down at the hand incredulously.

“I’m not holding your fucking hand dude, what’s wrong with you,” he says, laughing. “I got plenty of that in the car.”

Geoff laughs at Michael, pulling his hand back and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Oh, so you’ll accept head from a stranger in a bar, but not hand-holding from your boyfriend at breakfast?” Geoff says, rolling his eyes. He expects to get a laugh, but Michael just peers at him.

“What?” Geoff asks.

“First of all, ‘ _boyfriend_ ’ seems like such a lame word, now that I hear you say it out loud,” Michael says. “Second of all, who said you’re my boyfriend?”

Geoff can’t help but laugh. It does seem lame.

“Christ, are you breaking up with me?” Geoff asks through a smile. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you for the rest of the weekend?”

“Hey, I mean,” Michael says, getting defensive. “I mean… you never even asked me.”

“Asked you what?”

“To be your _boyfriend_ ,” Michael says, looking more than a little embarrassed, his mouth shaping the word like it’s foreign.

He’s right, actually. Geoff had made the mental leap without his characteristic amount of thought and over-analysis. He’d been writing out their future together all week in his head and he hadn’t even bothered to talk to Michael about it.

“Hell, Michael,” Geoff says, his laugh gone. He puts his arm back out, palm-up towards Michael. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Michael, Will you be my boyfriend?”

“Now that’s more like it,” Michael says, slapping his hand down onto Geoff’s roughly and smiling.

“Is that a yes?” Geoff teases.

“That’s a fuck yeah, Geoff.”

\---

Michael feels a little more himself after the food and second round of espresso has arrived. He watches Geoff scarf down corned beef hash like it’s his last meal on death row, and Michael tucks into his own omelet.

Once they’re a little sated and can slow down, Michael finally lets curiosity get the best of him.

“So, do I get to know where we’re going today or am I just along for the ride?”

Geoff grins at him.

“We’re headed to Index,” he says.

“What the hell is Index?” Michael asks.

“Your new favorite town in the state,” Geoff says.

“Wait, Index is a place?”

Geoff nods.

“You’re… totally taking me there because it’s named Index, aren’t you. Like a fucking book joke,” Michael says.

Geoff nods.

“Fucking nerd,” Michael says under his breath. Geoff laughs.

“There are good things about Index apart from the name,” Geoff says. “I assure you.”

“For example?”

“Mountains, for example,” Geoff says. “A private cabin, for example. And in about 90 minutes, your naked body. Just, y’know. For example.”

\---

Even though it’s close to midday when they arrive, Michael has nodded off again. Geoff follows the directions the cabin rental place had given him, turning off of Route 2 and following a winding road. There’s not much of anything off of the main road, and the spot is more isolated than he realized when he was booking--not that he minds.

Finally he reaches a clearing, and as he gets closer, he recognizes the cabin he’d picked out online. He parks and leans over to wake Michael. But he’s already awake, staring wide-eyed at the little cabin.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Michael says, softly.

“What?” Geoff asks, afraid he’s fucked up somehow.

But before he can ask anything else, Michael has already unbuckled his seatbelt and he’s trotting up to the cabin.

“Holy shit!” he says, turning to Geoff as he exits the car. “Holy shit, Geoff, look at this place!”

“I do the right thing, sometimes,” Geoff says with a smile as he joins Michael.

“You’re damn right you do,” Michael says. “This looks like a goddamn post card.”

It really does, too: an honest to god log cabin with a red metal roof. If it weren’t for the modern touches like skylights and floor-to-ceiling windows, it would look like an old painting, nestled there on the side of the mountains.

“You haven’t even seen the inside,” Geoff says. He retrieves a key code from his pocket and steps to the front door, pressing in the numbers. The door clicks open.

“After you,” he says, holding the door open for Michael.

“Holy shit, Geoff,” Michael repeats. “This is for us. This _whole thing?”_

“Yeah,” Geoff says, smiling--excited that Michael is excited. “Beats the studio apartment, right?”

“Jesus Christ does it ever,” Michael says.

The cabin is fully furnished, and Geoff watches as Michael explores it. It’s not huge, but their relationship has played out in a 450-square-foot apartment. It’s a nice change.

“The best part is upstairs,” Geoff says, gesturing to a wrought iron spiral staircase. Michael careens up immediately.

“No fucking way,” Michael says from the second story. “Geoff, what the fuck.”

Geoff joins him after a minute. The staircase leads directly into a large room with vaulted ceilings and, best of all, a large pool table.

“A fucking pool table,” Michael says. “You found us a cabin with a goddamn pool table.”

“Like I said,” Geoff says. “Sometimes I do the right thing.”

“Geoff,” Michael says, turning to him, not smiling anymore.

“What’s wrong?” Geoff asks. “Don’t you like it?”

“I fucking love it,” Michael says. “But like… Christ, it’s too much!”

“Bullshit it’s too much,” Geoff says.

“I can’t--I don’t,” he says, stumbling on his own words. “I don’t have any way to help pay for this or--”

“Michael, Christ,” Geoff says, stepping behind Michael and wrapping his arms around his chest. “It’s my gift to you. It’s not about the money.”

“Goddamn,” Michael says, easing into the embrace. “Merry Christmas to me.”

\---

Finally Michael turns in Geoff’s arms, burying his face in the other man’s chest. He’s fighting tears, although he doesn’t want Geoff to know that. There’s so much going on in his head he can barely keep track of it.

“Nobody’s ever done something so nice for me,” Michael says, knowing it’s the truth. “I feel like I can’t even accept it.”

Geoff squeezes him tighter, setting his chin on top of Michael’s head.

“I wish there was some way I could, like, contribute to this,” Michael says. “Or pay you back somehow.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Geoff jokes, grinding against him--and Michael can tell he’s smiling just from the tone of his voice.

Michael knows that it’s just a joke. But even a remark made with sarcasm has his mind going in a different direction, and he can imagine himself dropping to his knees right there and working off the debt with his mouth. The image is vivid, and combined with the proximity of the other man, Michael can already feel himself getting hard.

Michael pulls back from the embrace but doesn’t break it, and he catches Geoff’s mouth with his. The other man is taken by surprise, letting out the smallest groan as they crash together. And goddamn does it feel good--Michael had almost forgotten how good it could feel, it’s been so long since he’s tasted Geoff’s mouth and so long since he could kiss him with abandon.

Michael loses himself in the give and take for a moment, happy just to feel the warmth and softness cut only by the rigid piece of jewelry in the other man’s tongue. The rush of mental contentment and physical lust thrums through his body, and after a moment, Michael remembers his purpose. He steps back slowly, pulling Geoff with him. They’re just a few paces from the pool table.

When he feels the table just behind him, he drops his hands to Geoff’s hips and pivots them around so that Geoff’s backed up against the object. Michael breaks the kiss with a smile and pulls down on Geoff’s hips, encouraging him to sit up against the lip of the table. Geoff does, crooking his knees a few inches and allowing the table to support him. Michael is immediately pulling back, dropping down between his knees.

“Jesus Michael,” he says, “I was just kidding.”

“Right,” Michael says, his hand across the crotch of Geoff’s jeans. “So you don’t want a blow job, cool.”

“That’s not what I said,” Geoff says with a low chuckle.

“Good,” Michael says, on his knees now. “Then we’re both on the same page.”

Geoff’s already hard by the time Michael’s all the way on his knees. Michael pushes his legs apart and works fast at his belt, his zipper.

Once all of the fastenings are dispatched, Michael gently tugs Geoff’s jeans, leaving his boxer briefs up at his hips. He pushes the jeans down to the floor and then sits back on his heels, beaming up at Geoff’s erection straining against the cotton fabric.

“Two goddamn weeks, Geoff,” he says. “We gotta stop going this long.”

“Practice for college,” Geoff says with a smile and a deep sigh.

If there weren’t a cock in his face, Michael would want to examine that statement--was it a promise of a future together? Or was he teasing Michael?--but instead he files it away for future examination. He’d much rather tend to Geoff’s dick than try to decipher the stupid shit the man says sometimes.

Michael strokes Geoff’s outline through the fabric, and Geoff is already breathing hard above him. It’s gratifying knowing that however much he wants Geoff, it’s all returned. He replaces his hand with his mouth, just pressing his lips lightly against Geoff’s length, following the arch of warm skin behind soft fabric. When he reaches the head, he breathes hard and hot over it and Geoff bucks lightly up off of the table. He’s got a piece of jewelry in--Michael can feel it against the fabric.

He’s drooling now, but he just goes with it, allowing the warmth and wetness to spread across the front of the fabric while he reaches a hand up to gently cup Geoff’s balls. He never expected that he’d enjoy giving a blow job as much as this--but here he is, on his knees, hard as a fucking diamond, and almost moaning onto Geoff’s cock.

Michael would be content to tease the other man through his underwear all afternoon and on into the evening, but Geoff is impatient and hooks the garment down with a slow tug. Michael is happy to take the hint, pulling the underwear down to join the jeans around his ankles.

And as Geoff’s erection bounces loose, Michael notices that he’s changed the jewelry in it from a solid ring to a horseshoe with a ball on either end. Easier to take off, Michael thinks… and no less lovely.

He grasps Geoff’s cock gently by the base before laying a slick stripe up the bottom, stopping at the glans to tongue the jewelry there. It’s easier to manipulate with his tongue than the ring was, and Michael listens to Geoff empty every molecule of air from his lungs in a husky, shuddering sigh as he plays with the jewelry.

\---

Geoff’s heart and lungs and mind had opened up at his first glance of the Cascade Mountains this morning, but something else is cracking open inside of him as Michael begins to suck and lick loudly between his knees. There’s something animal inside of him that is awake now--and very _very_ pleased.

Michael builds a slow rhythm, taking in all he can of Geoff’s length and wrapping a hand firmly around the rest. The only thing in the universe right now that’s lovelier than the sight of Michael’s steady swallowing is the feeling of it, and Geoff can almost feel his consciousness going spongy and vague.

God. It _had_ been too long.

Michael starts in a bit faster, gagging himself, and the contraction of muscles and the wet, raw noise of it makes Geoff groan so loud it’s almost embarrassing. The noise just encourages Michael, and the sound bounces off the unfamiliar surfaces in the large room. Geoff realizes, then, that there’s no chance of someone discovering them, no need to be quiet in the remote, rural cabin. They can make all the noise they want.

And so he lets himself.

\---

The more vocal Geoff gets, the more eager Michael is to please him. It’s like some switch was flipped when Michael gagged, and suddenly Geoff is moaning into the air above him.

And holy shit does it sound good in the big, silent cabin.

Each swallow earns Michael a new noise, and Geoff delivers a wide range, from high whimpers to a guttural near-growl. Whatever it is that he’s knocked loose inside of Geoff, Michael loves it.

He pulls off to catch his breath, pumping Geoff’s cock with his hand as he looks up at the other man. He’s flushed, palms pressed against the lip of the table for support, eyes barely open as he groans and breathes hard.

“Fuck, Michael,” he says, catching Michael’s eyes.

“You like it?”

Geoff shudders out a soft laugh.

“I love it, Jesus,” he says.

“Tell me how much you like it,” Michael says. “Tell me what you thought about for the last two weeks.”

“Fuck,” he says, almost whispering, “I thought… about your perfect mouth.”

Michael hums affirmatively and takes Geoff into his mouth again, flattening his tongue to lay wide strokes against the head.

“I thought about the way you look,” Geoff says, breathy and struggling for each word, “so beautiful with my cock in your mouth.”

Michael swallows down against his length, building a rhythm again, knowing that Geoff is close and that the talk is getting him even closer.

“Thought about… fingering you,” Geoff says, his voice dropping even lower. “Hearing you beg so sweet.”

Geoff threads a hand through Michael’s hair, as if to steady himself as Michael strokes around him evenly.

“Thought about how hard you make me,” Geoff says, “how much I want to feel you under me.”

Michael’s almost holding his breath now, and he brings a hand up to roll Geoff’s balls.

“What it sounds like when you choke out my name as you come,” Geoff says--and then his muscles are quivering. “Fuck Michael, I’m gonna come-- _Christ_ you’re amazing--”

Geoff’s throat closes around the words as he goes incoherent and whimpering, his hips moving up off the pool table and the hand in Michael’s hair going tight. Michael lets Geoff move on his own through the orgasm, and Geoff is gentle--pressing just a bit further as Michael swallows around him, Geoff buried too deep for Michael to even taste him as he comes. After a moment, it’s too deep and Michael sputters.

As he pulls off swallowing, Michael can feel the muscles in Geoff’s thighs shaking. The man lets his entire weight fall back onto the pool table as Michael rises, Geoff’s hand falling limp from his curls.

“Fuck,” Geoff says. “That was beautiful.” He guides Michael into a deep kiss, pulling him against his lap. He palms Michael’s neglected erection through his jeans, and Michael breaks the kiss.  

“Come on,” Geoff says in a husky whisper that’s almost a sigh. “Don’t you want me to get you off?”

“I do,” Michael says. “But later. Is that ok? I want to wait.”

Geoff nods.

“Tell me whatever you want and it’s yours.”

\---

When they return downstairs to get their stuff, Geoff realizes with a smile that they didn’t even bother shutting the car doors before they were already upstairs fucking around.

“Jesus,” Michael says. “What kind of animals just go off and leave the car doors open.”

Michael slings his duffel over one shoulder and watches Geoff as he retrieves a large bag and moves a coat to reveal a pile of shapes wrapped in bright Christmas paper.

“The fuck’s all that,” Michael asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“None of your business,” Geoff says. He retrieves the largest package and presses it into Michael’s arms. “Would you carry this for me?”

“Goddamn it, Geoff,” Michael says. “The cabin is enough. You shouldn’t have done all this.”

“Shut up,” Geoff says. “You’ll take your Christmas presents and you’ll like ‘em.”

Michael sighs through a smile.

“You’re such a goddamned creep sometimes, you know that?” he says.

“As long as I’m _your_ creep boyfriend, then I’m fine with it,” Geoff says, balancing the smaller packages and shutting the hatchback. “Put that down in the living room.”

Once they’re back inside, they deposit the presents on a coffee table in the living room. Michael stops without saying anything and Geoff watches him unzip his duffel bag, pulling out a medium sized package. It’s wrapped in newspaper with a giant foil bow on top, and he sheepishly places it next to the gifts for Michael.

It makes Geoff’s chest go tight, and Michael catches Geoff watching him.

“Fuck off,” Michael says. “It’s nothing good so don’t go getting your hopes up.”

“Goddamn it Michael,” Geoff says, catching him in a bear hug. “You couldn’t be any more perfect if you tried--you know that?”

“You’re only saying that because I blew you on a pool table,” Michael says.

Geoff shrugs.

“What can I say? You know the way to my heart.”

Michael follows Geoff back upstairs, past the pool table and into a small bedroom. The headboard backs up to a large window--and this, Geoff realizes, was something he hadn’t seen from the pictures online.

“Holy shit, check it out,” Geoff says, kneeling on the bed and peering out the window. Michael joins him after a second. Although the mountains hadn’t been visible from the first story, the second story allows them a peek at the snowy caps. Two peaks rise up in a pale blue sky, almost blinding white in the midday sun.

“You can plan all of my vacations from now on,” Michael says--and not that Geoff is trying to nitpick, but he can’t help but notice that Michael says “my” and not “our.” He throws out a hand to ruffle Michael’s hair anyway.

“I gotta change my pants, but after that why don’t we go into town and pick up some groceries?” Geoff says.

“Ah, yes,” Michael says rolling his eyes. “Your favorite activity--besides sitting really still in silence.”

“Sorry--we could just get takeout, I guess, or--”

“Fuck, come on Geoff,” Michael says, laughing. “I’m just giving you a hard time. I like to eat your cooking just as much as you like to cook, I think.”

\---

They get distracted in town, realizing that they’re both ready for lunch by the time they pull into Index proper. Michael brings up Yelp on his phone and directs them to a place called Zeke’s, where they sit inside at a picnic table and wolf down twin baskets of burgers and greasy fries. It’s delicious. Michael grabs a strawberry milkshake before they go.

They find a grocery store and Michael sips his shake, examining Geoff as he gets into his ‘grocery zone.’ It’s all he can do to keep up at the man’s heels as he tosses things into the cart: ground pork, ground sirloin, a slab of bacon, a can of chilis, two cans of kidney beans, fresh tomatoes, a netted sack of garlic, a carton of eggs, heavy cream, a package of Irish butter, a loaf of bread.

Michael loses track of all he’s grabbed and for a moment he wonders how the two of them will eat all of... _whatever_ it is that Geoff has in mind.

\---

When they get back, Geoff sends Michael to explore the woods around the cabin while he unpacks the groceries and surveys the supplies in the kitchen.

He starts to assemble a large pot of chili, thankful that Michael’s gone because the boy won’t know how ridiculously easy it is. It’s his go-to lazy winter meal, and once the meat is browned, it only takes a few minutes to put together.

Next he sets up a slab of garlic bread, knowing that it’ll just take a few minutes to crisp up when they’re ready to eat. The chili can--and should--simmer for hours.

Michael careens back in after half an hour.

“Christ, Geoff,” he says breathless. “I’ve just never _seen_ mountains like this!”

“Have your parents never taken you to the west coast?”

“Nope,” Michael says. “We don’t really do family trips, unless Jersey counts.”

Geoff laughs, shaking his head.

“How fucking long have you lived here and not seen the mountains?”

Michael does a bit of mental math.

“About five years, I guess. Six, this year,” he says. “Besides Spokane and Chewelah, I haven’t seen much of the state.”

“Jesus,” Geoff says. “You’re in arguably the most beautiful state in the country and you didn’t even know it.”

“Well fuck, Geoff,” Michael says. “I’ve been at the mercy of Ray and my parents this whole time. You really think Ray likes to go on scenic goddamn drives?”

“Fair enough,” Geoff says. “Well, I’m glad you’ll make your first trip to the Cascades with me, then. They’re the reason I moved here.”

“Yeah?”

Michael takes a seat at a stool. The kitchen, which is at least six or seven times larger than Geoff’s kitchen at home, includes a generous bar and seating area. Geoff doesn’t even want to think about what he’d trade to have access to a kitchen like this in Chewelah.

“You moved here for mountains?” Michael says, prodding him.

“For mountains, and the fact that it was far the fuck away from Alabama,” he admits. “So uh. What do you think about opening Christmas presents now?”

“Christ, you’re worse than a little kid,” Michael says, rolling his eyes.

“Is that a no?”

“Fine, let’s get it over with,” Michael says.

They move to the living room and Geoff settles on an ancient-looking braided rug in the floor.

“Here,” Michael says, retrieving his gift for Geoff. “You go first.”

Geoff beams at him, accepting the gift. The package has the characteristic heft and glug of a glass bottle and he frowns immediately at Michael.

“Damn it, Michael,” Geoff says. “Is this liquor?”

“You’re not supposed to guess, Christ.”

Geoff tears the newspaper wrap off, revealing a squat cardboard box. He pops the top and hefts out a bottle of whiskey. The bottle is modern and sleek, the label on the front square with a sophisticated, sparing design.

“‘Koval single barrel bourbon whiskey,’” Geoff reads. “‘Distilled in Chicago.’ Shit, I’ve heard of this stuff.”

“Yeah?” Michael says, an eyebrow arched.

“Yeah, seriously.”

Geoff peels off the protective plastic and uncorks the bottle with a satisfying “ _poohk_!” The whiskey inside sloshes against the clear glass of the bottle leaving wavy trails. Geoff takes a deep whiff and it’s a complex smell, pure grain mixing with hot caramel. It’s a far cry from the generic burn smell of the mid-level liquor he usually drinks.

“Goddamn that smells amazing,” Geoff says. “Thank you Michael. Where the fuck did you even find this in Chewelah?”

“Didn’t,” Michael says. “I smuggled it in from our trip to New Jersey.”

“Jesus,” Geoff says. “I’m sure that was quite a feat!”

“Yeah, and my cousin had to drive me to get it,” Michael says with a grimace. “So he’ll have _that_ blackmail fodder on me for the rest of my life.”

“You didn’t tell him it was for _me_ I hope?”

“No, Christ, I wouldn’t trust him with such a good secret,” he says. “I told him it was for a friend back home. But he obviously had to discover my fake ID in the process.”

“I really wish you’d cut that thing up,” Geoff says.  

Michael thinks about it for a moment and Geoff watches some mysterious calculation going on there in his brown eyes. After a moment, he reaches into his pocket and digs out a wallet.

“Here,” he says after he locates the ID. He hands it out to Geoff. “My second Christmas present.”

“Yeah?” Geoff says, taking the laminated rectangle.

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Keep it, chop it up. Whatever you want to do with it.”

It only takes a second for the gravity of the gift to blossom in Geoff’s mind. The ID was Michael’s escape from being a child, a doorway that took him away from his parents and into the distant world of adulthood. As far as Geoff knew, the ID had gotten him Geoff, had gotten him into trouble, and had gotten him one very lovely and expensive bottle of liquor.

And now, as he hands it over to Geoff, he’s making a promise.

No more fucking around. No more petty outings and unnecessary danger.  

And Geoff hopes that it means that Michael’s life is no longer so unfulfilling that he needs to go out seeking excitement.

He hopes that it means that Michael understands how important his happiness, his safety is to Geoff.

And in turn, that Michael is willing to give up that tiny sliver of freedom and foolishness that he’s found for himself--if it means that Geoff will be happy.

“Thank you, Michael,” Geoff says slowly, tucking the ID into his own wallet. “This means a lot to me.”

“I know,” Michael says, half a grin growing across his face. “It does to me too. I think.”

Geoff heaves a deep, happy sigh and he can’t help but smile because he knows it’s Michael’s turn to unwrap presents now.

\---

“Ok, asshole,” Michael says. “Not that I want _any_ of it, but what did you get me?”

Michael watches as Geoff selects the biggest present in the pile and hands it over to Michael. He’s glad Geoff’s starting with that one first because he’s been damned curious since he laid eyes on it in the trunk.

Geoff looks on as Michael tears into the package, revealing a cardboard box. Inside, there’s something leather. Michael pulls it out gently and recognizes it immediately: it’s a cue case. The chestnut brown leather is buttery under his hands, and there’s a sturdy adjustable strap.

He looks closer, and there are his initials: MVJ.

“I didn’t know you knew my middle name,” Michael says, looking up at Geoff.

“There are a few advantages to having access to your permanent record,” Geoff says through a smile. “Look inside.”

“Geoff, seriously?”

Geoff just looks at him and shrugs.

Michael should’ve known this jerk would’ve gotten him a cue, too. Who just gives somebody a case? And indeed, there’s a cue inside.

With reverence, Michael slides out the two ends, the butt and the shaft, forcing himself not to look too hard at it or judge its weight until the two ends are fitted together.

But once they’re firmly attached, Michael knows he’s already in love.

“The shaft is maple with a carbon fiber core,” Geoff says. “That’s, uh, what the guy thought you’d like.”

“Holy shit, Geoff.”

“He said it has a, uh, triple-layer design?” Geoff says, obviously searching his memory. “Which allegedly reduces vibration and minimizes shaft distortion. You have no idea how long it took me to memorize all this, by the way. I can tell you about the butt, too, if you really care.”

“Geoff, this is too much.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that and I keep disagreeing.”

The cue really is beautiful, objectively. It’s like a goddamned art piece, and Michael has never held anything like it in his hands. He’s never even had his own cue, and here he is starting off with… with whatever the hell this thing is.

He leans in to peer at the inlay work around the bottom. There are four neat black and white diamonds on the sleeve. And then, to his astonishment, he spots a gold four-leaf cover with an “M” emblem in the middle of it.

“Fuck, Geoff, you got me a goddamned McDermott custom cue?”

“I--yeah I guess,” Geoff says, his face going slack with worry. “Is that good?”

“That’s incredible,” Michael says. “You’re an asshole for getting me something so nice, and that’s goddamned incredible.”

“You need a cue that’s not too warped if you’re going to start hustling full time,” Geoff says. “I mean, if college doesn’t pan out, I figure you need a backup plan.”

“This isn’t even right, Geoff,” Michael says, shaking his head. “Thank you so much, seriously.”

Geoff tosses a smaller package at him.

“Here,” he says. “This is related.”

Michael sets the cue down carefully and tends to the second package. Under the wrapping paper is a small box labeled ‘McMagic Shaft Maintenance Kit.’

“Oh my god,” Michael says, laughing already.

“I had to buy it, if only for the name,” Geoff says.

“You’re such a child,” Michael says.

“Takes one to know one.”

“I mean, I’ll seriously need this, so thank you,” Michael says. “But that doesn’t excuse the fact that you’re a moron.”

And then something occurs to him.

“Geoff, how the hell am I supposed to explain this to my parents?” Michael says.

“Don’t,” Geoff says. “You can keep it at my place until you go off to college. By then, you won’t need an explanation.”

Geoff goes to retrieve the last gift, a small package. He hands it over to Michael.

“I’m almost afraid to know what’s in here,” Michael says. “It feels like a book.”

“It is,” Geoff says. “And more. I guess.”

Michael turns the package over in his hands. It doesn’t have the feel of a new book, the binding moving a little spongy, the edges not nearly crisp enough. A used book, then.

Something tells him to unwrap this one more carefully, and he does so--slowly peeling back the tape.

And indeed, it’s a paperback, very worn.

“‘James Joyce,’” he says, reading the cover. “‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.’”

Geoff doesn’t offer an explanation--just sits there looking at Michael with a strange expression on his face--and so Michael examines the book. ‘RAMSEY’ is scrawled in thick black letters across the top edge of the book, when it’s closed, and the handwriting is so sloppy that he only barely recognizes Geoff’s writing.

He cracks it to the first page.

It’s immediately a jumble of writing, three different pen colors plus pencil, words and notes that make zero sense.

“senses -- see p 112 also 219 (smell??)”

“181 142 166 hands, see ch 3 w/may”

“speaking of words foreshadows his future as artist?”

“quiet/loud, esp chap 1, emph on words”

Michael flicks forward a few pages, and each page is just as heavily notated as the last.

“changed poem”

“artistic creation”

“boy < parents < relatives < world”

“youth, self as center of universe”

There’s a variety of handwriting on display, and all of it seems to be Geoff’s.

The inside of the book is a virtual rainbow of highlights and notes and underlining. No page is untouched. It is a very, very well-loved text and it’s like nothing Michael has ever seen before. He flips back to the front cover and zeroes in on a note there.

“Remember!! Test 11/5/01”

“Two thousand one,” Michael says out loud. “You were… what… a junior in high school?”

Geoff nods, smiling very faintly, still with that strange expression.

“What is this, Geoff?”

“It’s the Geoff version of East of Eden,” he says. “It’s my first favorite book.”

“Geoff,” Michael says, scolding him for what feels like the fiftieth time that day. “I can’t accept this.”

“I really need for you to have it, Michael,” he says, and now Michael understands the peculiar look on his face. This book might as well be his goddamn heart. The enormity broadsides him, and suddenly Michael’s blinking back hot tears. He won’t argue anymore because he knows Geoff won’t take no for an answer--but his mind is reeling, trying to fathom what it means.

“I can’t wait to read this, Geoff,” he says. “Your notes included.”

“I can’t wait for you to read it,” Geoff answers through a smile. “There’s one more thing. Turn to the end.”

Michael obeys, flipping to the back. A folded sheet from a legal pad falls into his lap. He retrieves it and holds it up. Geoff nods--yes, that’s it.

It’s all too much. He can’t wrap his mind around what could be left, what could be more meaningful than what they’ve already exchanged tonight. And yet, he unfolds it, steeling himself for whatever is inside.

\---

Geoff’s heart is beating hard, too damn hard, as he watches Michael unfold the paper. He licks his lips and concentrates on breathing. Michael peers down at the paper, blinking slowly.

“‘The Aftermath,’” Michael reads from the page. He looks up. “A poem, Geoff?”

Geoff nods.

Michael sniffs hard and Geoff can guess that he’s holding back tears but he’s too nervous to dwell on the detail for long.

Michael holds the unfolded paper out to him.

“Would you read it for me, Geoff,” he asks gently.

Geoff wants to shake his head, to say that he can’t, to admit that he’s never read any of his poetry out loud, that he’s never even let another human see it. But there’s Michael, his eyes shining, his face a patchwork of adoration and confusion and embarrassment, and Geoff doesn’t have the heart to say no.

He takes the paper, clears his throat, and begins to read, repeating the title.

“‘The Aftermath,” he begins.

 

“One breaks first to shoot pool.

That neat pattern carefully made--

carefully shattered.

 

“We met (after meeting)

and I was afraid of your name.

Michael.

To say the name it is to give shape

to desire.

I knew, but I could not call the shot.

 

“Adeptly you sank them, you sink them still.

Stripes, solids, it’s all the same to

everyone smarter than me

(to, especially, you).

 

“You dismantled the shape I had

in mind.

I scrambled to repair--

inexpertly--

the parts of me

you had fixed

already.

 

“Your english and my english--

felt and ferrules.

You watched me scratch,

every inch the hustler,

again and again.

 

“My small life from then

will be forever expanding,

the sweet aftermath.”

When he’s done, Geoff folds the paper again and holds it in his hands, breathing and looking down at the scrap.

He feels deeply embarrassed, almost ashamed of the gift. His feelings laid so bare and so raw, the amateur ramblings of a sorry and lonely drunk.

Why had he felt the need to write and deliver such a clumsy, ham-handed piece of work?

How did he think he could bear exposing himself so utterly?

But before the spiral goes any further, there’s Michael, pushing into his lap, fisting away the fat tears rolling down his own cheeks, and Michael smiles into a kiss, colliding so hard into Geoff that for a moment the man can forget where he ends and Michael begins.

Michael kisses away his doubts; Geoff kisses away his tears.

 

 


	30. Interlude: Close Reading

> "Close Reading: Reading a piece of literature carefully, bit by bit, in order to analyze the significance of every individual word, image, and artistic ornament."
> 
> \--L.K. Wheeler
> 
> “Close Reading or _Explication de texte_ operates on the premise that literature, as artifice, will be more fully understood and appreciated to the extent that the nature and interrelations of its parts are perceived, and that that understanding will take the form of insight into the theme of the work in question. This kind of work must be done before you can begin to appropriate any theoretical or specific literary approach.”
> 
> \--J.E. Patten

* * *

What follows is somewhere between exegesis and sex: Geoff reverent and gentle, and yet his touches don’t quite fall into the category of worship. There’s something more there, Michael realizes, as if his hands were prying Michael’s body the same way that his intellect had parsed through Michael’s mind.

He kisses Michael as if there is something to be learned from kissing--as if, through the meeting of mouth and mouth, they could both make something more meaningful.

Michael lets their problems fall away, lets each touch propel him further from the reality of who they are and what they face, lets each kiss erase the troubles that lay behind them.

And after a few moments, now and here and Geoff and Michael is all there is.

\---

There was a moment before and a moment after Geoff learned what a passage of writing could mean to him. Before, prose and poetry were concrete things to be read. And after, the words would never be something passive again, even if he wanted them to.

Michael’s body _is_ a poem, in the end, a small, pale structure that clothes the best brain, the most interesting soul that Geoff has ever encountered. Geoff is not his first lover, he knows, but he wonders maybe if he’s the first person to understand the nature of what Michael is, the first person to touch Michael and to take from that touch all that the boy has to offer there--to become something more in the act of touching than a simple partner who gives and receives without knowing what could be.

The visceral need is there--had thrummed through Geoff like an alien heartbeat as Michael led him up the stairs of the warm cabin, the gifts scattered on the floor behind them, small testaments to where they had been--but his body is only a piece of what Geoff feels now. It’s something more, too, than just affection. Devotion, maybe. Genuflection. To every inch of his soft skin, to every movement of his muscles, to every synapse in his head.

No, Geoff thinks, he deserves to kiss Michael--to love Michael--no more than he deserves to be allowed to engage with great works of literature. But, just like the world’s greatest prose, some benevolence in Michael grants Geoff access in spite of all of Geoff’s inadequacies. And Geoff won’t say no anymore.  

\---

They crash together on the unfamiliar bed. Chilled from his explorations outside, Michael hadn’t removed his jacket yet, but now he’s uncomfortably hot inside of the cabin with Geoff on top of him. The other man’s hands are inside of his jacket, pressing through the garment into the bed, using it to pin Michael’s back.

Michael is desperate already for more contact, all of the unresolved energy from their earlier contact bubbling back immediately, and he struggles up against the pressure.

“Shhh,” Geoff says in between kisses on Michael’s throat.

“Geoff, please,” Michael says, knowing he’s whining already.

In response, Geoff only pushes up and away from Michael, holding him down and looking into his face with a familiar kind of affection, amusement.

“I want to take my time, Michael,” he says. “Will you let me do that?”

Michael puffs a frustrated breath through his nose. Geoff must be able to see the disappointment in his face.

“We have all weekend,” Geoff says. He releases one side of Michael’s jacket and moves the warm hand under the hem of Michael’s shirt, stroking the skin where belly transitions to groin.

“Fuck,” Michael whispers.

“Have a little faith in me,” Geoff says, gently, his expression going slack. There’s so much for Michael to take in, so much he’d like to never forget about the heavy-lidded eyes rimmed with near invisible lashes, the vulnerable turn of Geoff’s mouth when he’s unsure of the answer to a question.

“I’ll take care of you,” Geoff says. “Let me take my time?”

“Yeah,” Michael finally concedes, trying consciously now not to press his body up into the touch. “Yes, Geoff.”  

\---

It’s foreign to have all the time he wants with Michael.

As he kisses the thin skin along Michael’s jaw, Geoff’s mind drifts to stories of shipwrecked sailors. Starved and dangerously dehydrated, the sailors gorge themselves uncontrollably when rescue comes--eating and drinking anything they can. And then: their bodies simply give up, stretched too far from one extreme to the other, and the sailors die in a deep irony only after finding salvation.

Could Geoff’s own story go the same way? Could he be so starved for this boy and then so suddenly sated that his own mind would find itself overfull, and he’d be lost beyond rescue?

No, Geoff realizes. Love works only to enrich and refine. Even when you’re lost in it.

And besides: there would be no sating Geoff. Out of every kiss is born the desire for ten thousand more kisses. Every minute together cries out for an eternity more.

\---

Michael lets Geoff wander back and forth between his neck and his lips. Denied more contact, Michael tries his best to suppress the desire to whine and grab and pull. And after a moment, he’s able to relax a bit and to fall into the flow of trust.

The only sounds in the cabin are the pair of them breathing and the ocean-like flow of air through the trees surrounding them.

It feels like the entire earth is breathing with them.

He waits patiently as Geoff kisses back up to his face, and can’t help but to catch his mouth then for another deep exchange. Geoff is warm and wet and tasteless, his mouth a familiar landscape. Michael has memorized even the initially foreign planes of the anomalous tongue piercing, added it to the many sensations that form his experience of “Geoff.”

They kiss into each other and there’s no sense as to who is leading or who is being kissed--just a satisfying union.

Finally Geoff takes his hands out of Michael’s jacket and begins to ease the garment off of him. Michael sits up and allows himself to be gently undressed. He reaches down to grab the bottom hem of his remaining layers of clothing, shooting a look at Geoff as if seeking permission.

In answer, Geoff grabs the garments where they lay at the small of Michael’s back and strips them off of him--the shirt turning inside out inside of the sweater--and he discards the clothes in a heap beside the bed.

\---

Geoff is close enough to see the goosebumps rise on Michael’s skin as it’s exposed to the air. He rushes to cover every inch of it--with himself, with his mouth--and in spite of his own plea for them to take their time, it’s almost too much not to abandon the slow pace then and there and to strip the both of them down.

But he’s back to himself after a moment, kissing down the hard bone of Michael’s sternum, into the subtle cleft of his chest, before moving laterally to a small, dark nipple. He smiles at the little breath Michael draws at the touch, and Geoff’s kiss becomes less chaste. He drags his tongue across the hard bud, rolling the warm ball of his piercing against it.

Michael hums into the air.

All the while, Geoff’s hands are at work too: appreciating the understated muscles of Michael’s torso, his fingertips tracing the shape of ribs just below the surface, stopping to stroke every inch but not yet dipping below his navel. He enjoys the feel of the patches of fine, downy hair that decorate Michael’s skin here and there, the smooth skin beneath them.

Geoff allows himself to grip harder into Michael’s back, his torso, appreciating the proportions of the boy’s body, how easily it fits into his tattooed hands.

And what he feels is more than a need for sex, a need to be on and inside of him again, but beyond that, a need to memorize, to know, to understand every individual part that comes together to make Michael Jones into a breathing, moaning reality.

\---

Just as Michael begins to worry that Geoff has forgotten about his other nipple, Geoff moves mercifully to lavish attention to the other side of his chest, his hands and mouth moving slow and purposefully across his torso, never lingering too long in one spot.

It takes a real composure, Michael thinks, not to start begging.

Every cell in his body is ignited and screaming, especially the ones making up the erection that’s been pinned to his leg for what feels like an hour, completely untouched but insistent and alive and twitching hard as Geoff runs the smooth metal ball of his piercing across Michael’s nipple.

And if Geoff hadn’t asked so sweetly, Michael would be begging in earnest now: _Geoff, please, fuck me, I need you, I can’t take it, Geoff, I want you to fuck me, please you gotta--_

\---

As he maps the landscape of Michael’s muscles, of his skin, Geoff can begin to feel Michael tense below him.

It’s subtle at first, a simple matter of the boy moving less and breathing softer. But as he kisses now down the center of his chest, Michael has gone deathly still and each muscle Geoff kisses feels distended with _want_.

It’s like his entire body has a hard-on, Geoff thinks with a smile.

Finally his compassion kicks in, and Geoff’s hands move to Michael’s belt as he lays a gentle kiss into the boy’s navel.

Michael lets out a ragged moan and the hollow sound of it bounces around in Geoff’s chest while simultaneously making his own erection pulse. When he’s not pleading and cursing, Michael’s noises are some of the most rawly erotic sensations he’s ever encountered. Geoff could get off easily to the sound alone.

But Michael doesn’t beg, doesn’t force another moan. He lapses immediately back to measured breaths as Geoff undoes his belt and gently begins to pull off his jeans.

\---

The mattress shifts below Michael as Geoff moves to remove the remaining garments. Michael lets him, hitching up his hips as Geoff catches his pants and underwear in the same pass. In any other situation, he’d feel self conscious about the needy bounce of his freed erection, but he can’t bring himself to care at the moment--lost in the sensations, given over entirely to anticipation.

Michael hears his jeans land on the floor, and almost as an afterthought, Geoff pulls his socks off too. There’s more movement, the soft sound of clothing being touched, and Michael looks down in time to catch Geoff undressing.

With Geoff busy at his chest, he hadn’t had a chance to see the other man’s face, and he’d retreated to an island of pure sensation. But when their eyes meet now, a thousand thoughts seem to flow between them.

There’s a self-conscious humor behind Geoff’s crooked, closed-lip smile as he strips himself at the end of the bed.

And Geoff must know, he realizes, how much Michael enjoys the sight of him--the sudden view of the rest of his tattoos, flowing down his arms and across his shoulders where they trace the shapes of the muscles on his chest. He tosses his t-shirt to the head of the bed and meets Michael’s eyes and something hot and too big rips through every corner of Michael’s chest as Geoff rubs a dark-patterned hand across his own sternum.

There have been doubts and fears littering every dim corner of Michael’s psyche lately but in this moment he knows that he could not love Geoff more--that no other human being has ever understood Michael and simply known him and seen him, and that Michael’s never been so deeply overtaken with a need to love someone else, to be someone’s everything, as he is in this moment.

“Come back,” he says, gesturing to Geoff, finding his voice.

It earns him a wide smile, and Geoff holds up a finger to say “one sec” before his hands move to the belt at his waist. He steps out of his shoes while he undoes the latch of his belt, then hooks his hands into the waistband of his boxer briefs to pull both layers down at once.

What the movement may lack in grace, it makes up for in utility, and Michael has an intense appreciation for the sight of Geoff standing naked and casual at the foot of the bed.

Yet still he does not return to Michael, instead kneeling on the bed over Michael’s knees and working his way slowly up. Michael draws his legs up slightly as Geoff runs his hands over the muscles of his upper legs until he’s stroking Michael’s hips. The soft touch turns into a more aggressive grip before dissolving, caressing back down.

And finally, mercifully, Geoff begins to kiss his way up the soft skin of Michael’s inner thighs. Any sense of relief is met with equal anticipation, and Michael’s first impulse is to bite down on his own wrists to muffle the sounds he’s beginning to make. But after a moment, he realizes there’s no need to stifle himself, and he lets himself sing praises into the air as soft moans.

\---

His inner thighs are the softest parts of Michael yet, yielding and warm under Geoff’s lips. The boy’s doing a good job of not squirming under the touch, and he’s begun to relax again at Geoff’s touch. As he kisses up, his hands roam down, stroking the soft skin at the back of Michael’s knees, stroking up to where legs meet the soft flesh of hips.

No part of it is meant as a tease as he traces the slow and inevitable path towards Michael’s erection. He’d drinking deeply the details of every inch of the other man, finding satisfaction in delayed satisfaction itself.

\---

By the time Geoff nears his cock, Michael feels as if his whole world has been reduced to a network of nerves. As if his body only exists to be appreciated by Geoff, played by the other man like an instrument.

He must have been some lovely type of human in a past life in order to deserve this, he thinks, as Geoff’s hand finally takes him, wrapping confidently around his erection as his mouth continues up its path, laying soft kisses into the juncture of thigh and ass.

Slow and steady, he moves to a point where hand and mouth converge, and Michael shudders as Geoff kisses the root of his shaft, pausing there now to break the chaste pattern with a lurid, wet lick. He traces Michael’s base with the middle of his tongue, the ball of the piercing there, and it takes all of Michael’s willpower not to grind himself against Geoff’s face.

And still, the licks and kisses are not teasing--it’s as if Geoff is mapping every centimeter of him. Michael had expected Geoff to drop the methodical cartographer act when the man reached his cock, but he was wrong.

Geoff’s unhurried pace continues as he draws warm, slick stripes with his tongue from base to tip and base to tip, stopping each time to taste the border of Michael’s glans before returning to the base. Michael steadies his breathing, appreciating the pattern.

Finally, when he’s made a full circle, Geoff repositions himself on his elbows. At the feeling of Geoff shifting below him, Michael looks down in curiosity.

He’s treated to the sight of the other man wrapping a hand around him, his eyes downcast in concentration, before exposing his entire tongue, gleaming piercing and all. He doesn’t realize Michael is watching him as he lays a wide lick across the head of Michael’s cock, rolling the piercing against the skin there and collecting a generous bead of precum before completing his path.

Michael watches Geoff’s tongue disappear between two lips, watches it roll then in Geoff’s closed mouth as the man tastes him. Michael realizes he’s not breathing.

\---

The boy under him heaves a sigh and his breathing returns to normal after a beat as Geoff continues on his journey, up past Michael’s cock and towards his hips.

He’s saved Michael’s hips for last--the last of Michael’s front, anyway--because they’ve become one of Geoff’s favorite parts of him. Where Michael’s legs are boyish and his torso is efficient and athletic, his hips are somewhere between, in a no man’s land that is distinctly Michael.

He kisses up the cleft “v” of one hip, his hands grasping either side of Michael’s flanks--and still it’s not enough--and Geoff finds himself licking, tracing the shape. Something about Michael’s hips makes Geoff want to dig his fingers in, to leave marks there, to claim the spot as his alone.

But he resists the visceral urge towards ownership and rough consumption and tries to be content only with kissing and grasping and tasting.

When he’s satisfied, finally, and had his fair share of Michael’s hips, he gently moves to flip him, saying “Turn over” in a low voice. Michael agrees without resistance, flipping to kneel slightly on the bed.

Michael’s compliance, his beauty in that moment is almost too much and Geoff can only say a silent prayer of thanks into the ether that he’d already gotten off once that day because otherwise the sight would’ve been too much for Geoff to keep his composure.

\---

He feels Geoff moving over him, positioning himself to lay pressure across Michael’s hips, and Michael draws a harsh breath as Geoff’s cock rubs low against his back. But there he is again, pressing Michael flat down onto the bed, mapping Michael’s skin, and Michael feels the slight scrape of the other man’s mustache at the nape of his neck, Geoff’s lips kissing into the border of hair and sensitive skin.

He goes lousy with goosebumps again and Geoff kisses down his spine, hands planted firmly on Michael’s hips. Geoff mouths each bump of his bones.

There was a time in Michael’s life when he’d been utterly self conscious of his bony back, of the lack of ropey muscle that he’d seen in other guys his age. But under the weight of Geoff’s tenderness, there’s no room for self consciousness. Geoff continues the steady descent, shifting his weight, until he’s kissing into the soft cleft of Michael’s ass, and Michael shudders, groaning down into the bed beneath him.

Geoff releases his hips then, reaching to stroke the planes of Michael’s ass with a firm hand, alternately caressing and squeezing. Each time he grabs Michael almost to the point of pain before releasing him, massaging him slowly with a strong thumb. His mouth works down to the line where ass meets thigh and the strong, firm movement dissolves into light kisses peppered laterally, one side to the other. And under the haze of arousal, Michael can feel himself smile.

The inevitable spread comes a moment later, a cold and exposed feeling that Michael wonders if he’ll ever get used to. Geoff has laid his hands firmly on both of Michael’s cheeks and gently, with a practiced movement, spread him bare. And no, it’s not the first time, but it still takes an enormous amount of trust for Michael to lay silent, not to protest, as Geoff kisses slowly towards the deepest part of him, laying his lips there and then, as Michael shivers and moans, his wide tongue.

Geoff’s mapping project must be officially over now that he’s reached Michael’s ass, because he traces and re-traces the same route with his tongue, applying different angles as he strokes the wet muscle over Michael and then, after what feels like a hundred strokes, dips into him. Michael is impossibly hard, impossibly warm, and he bucks slightly down into the bed, unable now to keep himself from begging, from moving, and the single word “Please” spills from his lips.

The tongue is gone, then, replaced by the thick pad of one of Geoff’s fingers--maybe his thumb, it’s difficult to tell. The slicked pad strokes up and down before circling him and then pressing into him--only slightly, only just that much deeper than Geoff’s tongue had been. He withdraws then, repeats the entire process before pressing in again, and again, only that much deeper but still deeper than before.

“Please,” Michael hears himself saying. “Please Geoff,” and he doesn’t want to beg but suddenly he’s overcome bodily with the need, more than anything else, to be filled by Geoff. He doesn’t want to be handled anymore--he needs to be fucked--and not even for the release of it but more for the satisfaction of sharing a space, of not being alone, of having the other man on him and in him. “Please, Geoff,” he repeats, and there are tears behind his eyes.

Geoff gives in, the weight of him disappearing as he goes--Michael assumes--to retrieve a bottle of lube from his luggage. And sure enough, he returns and Michael hears the familiar click of the cap opening.

He feels Geoff’s breath on his lower back, then, the man’s nose pressing into his spine as he kisses Michael and slides a digit smoothly into him. Michael relaxes easily around the pressure, and in any other situation he’d be rocking backwards, whining for a second finger. Be he wills himself to be patient, letting Geoff kiss up and down his spine again, receiving the gentle strokes appreciatively instead of impatiently.  

But still, he craves to be touched deeper, to be stretched more, and he moans down into the bed to try and encourage Geoff to continue. He wants rougher handling--to feel every ounce of uncertainty melt away as Geoff sinks into him, grabs hard at the skin he’d so precisely mapped out--wants the security of being claimed and wanted.

Maybe some iota of that desire is translated through Michael’s moans, then, because after a moment, Geoff withdraws before pushing back in now with two wet fingers. Michael pants harder down onto the bed as Geoff sinks the digits, Michael’s muscles alternately straining and relaxing.

After a few shallow caresses, Geoff strokes deep--deeper than usual--and as the pad of one finger grazes Michael’s prostate, he bucks and moans louder. The movement earns him a firm hand on one hip, Geoff pressing him down into the bed as he crooks his fingers again into the spot and places his lips again into one of the dimples at the back of Michael’s hips.

\---

Michael is putting on a beautiful show beneath him as Geoff slides in and out of the boy, and it’s starting to become a test of willpower for Geoff. He wants to maintain the steady care he’s shown so far, but every inch of Geoff’s skin wants to be closer to Michael, wants to consume him, and something base inside of Geoff is twitching at the thought of abandoning the slow caresses and fucking Michael into the mattress until he’s blinking out those lovely fat tears and babbling Geoff’s name.

He thought it was difficult to resist it when Michael was begging to be fucked. But apparently the absence of Michael’s begging, the solitary study of Michael’s body in relative silence, is even more difficult to endure.

And it’s a beautiful scene, the white expanse of Michael’s back, lined symmetrically here and there with gentle bones and sinew, gracefully sloping to his hips, his perfect ass. Geoff lays a tattooed hand at the base of his spine and strokes upwards, appreciating the look of the dark patterns on his forearm against the perfect, pale skin of Michael’s back.

Michael’s muscles are shivering now as he works his fingers in, sometimes stroking against the swollen button of Michael’s prostate and sometimes denying him. They’re both beyond ready, and it’s an equal dose of sadism and masochism that Geoff continues to stroke into the boy with his fingers, his own erection untouched and needing.

Finally it’s too much, and he withdraws, moving to kiss Michael’s neck before he sits back on his heels.

Michael breathes steadily, still resting on his belly, as Geoff retrieves the bottle of lube and slicks his own erection, slowing only for a moment to tease himself, rolling the horseshoe-shaped piercing and appreciating the sensation before working his hand back down to the base of his cock. He tosses the bottle towards the head of the bed before guiding Michael gently up to his knees.

He keeps one hand steady on Michael’s hip, the other at his own base as he presses slowly into Michael. Michael lets out a long sigh that dissolves into a broken “oh _fuck_ ” under his breath at the end, and the first stroke seems to take days, time stretching out before them as Michael’s muscles allow him entry, as each of Geoff’s nerves comes alive at the feeling of silky skin on skin.

Michael is all softness and warmth and gentle moans, and it’s sweeter than it’s ever been before, now, in the quiet and the safety of the cabin, tucked away from anything that could harm them, sheltered from the storm of reality and the oppressive weight of who they must be to one another every school day. They are on equal footing in that moment, no power play, no begging, no struggle. No one party wants the other more--insecurity and anxiety replaced with a shared refuge, with pleasure.

Geoff drapes his own body across Michael’s, an expanse of unblemished skin meeting his own weathered chest of thirty years, and as they move together and Geoff loops his arm around Michael, he knows the younger man for what he is: a welcoming sanctuary, unselfish and indulgent, denying Geoff nothing--not because of Geoff’s power over him or his age or some imagined allure but because of a truth between them.

Michael rocks his hips in time as Geoff sinks into him and they find a slow tempo together--steady but not desperate. While the pleasure they both feel at finally coming together would usually spiral out into talking and teasing and needy grasping, Geoff feels as if there is no hurry to get himself off or to stroke Michael, normally begging and impatient, towards orgasm.

Michael, he realizes, may feel differently--since they are, after all, pursuing Geoff’s second orgasm of the day--but Michael had been the one to tell him to wait, and he hopes the boy doesn’t regret it now as Geoff takes his time, laying long strokes into him.

Geoff presses back up, regaining his own weight and balancing on his knees where he can see what he’s doing in the unfamiliar bedroom, lit by a bedside lamp. Michael’s back moves gracefully, and he draws in a sharp breath when Geoff takes him by the lovely hips.

He squeezes fingertips into muscle and bone firmly, guiding Michael to meet his slow thrusts, and he can hear the change in Michael’s breathing as he takes control. He watches himself disappear into Michael, the younger man’s hips fitting perfectly into Geoff’s hands, Geoff’s cock fitting perfectly into him, and he can’t help but breathe out a few words to Michael about how beautiful he is, how sublime this looks and feels--and if he ever had to choose a thoroughly pornographic moment to etch into his memory for safekeeping, it wouldn’t be a breathless blow job with an undercurrent of danger or the desperate first time they crashed together in his apartment, not a second of dirty talk or the stolen half hour as Michael rode him in the car--it would be this moment together in peaceful, measured movements.

\---

Geoff takes his time, and it’s never been like this before: the slow build, the hands guiding Michael, the reassuring fullness at the bottom of each stroke. Michael had always pushed them crashing towards orgasm as fast as he could, sex as a means to an end, but now he finds himself satisfied long before he feels the familiar burn of an orgasm building at the base of his frame.

Geoff moves his hips in long strokes, guiding Michael to meet him halfway--but gradually he begins to change the pace so that he’s met slower and deeper. Michael lets him. And when Geoff circles his chest with an arm again, pulls Michael up to his knees, Michael lets him do that, too.

He grinds against Michael and Michael lets all of his weight fall back onto the larger man, who steadies them even as they move together. He keeps one arm looped around Michael, the other gently pulling his hips back even now, even with no space between them, and the angle as Geoff grinds into him is just right. Michael moans out praise, lets Geoff know that he can keep doing whatever he’s doing for as long as he goddamned pleases, and Geoff chuckles low, his face buried in the curve of Michael’s neck.

With the encouragement, Geoff releases the hand he’d kept on Michael’s hip and he spits into his palm before threading a second arm around Michael, finding his erection and grasping him lightly. It’s an incredible feeling, then, to be wrapped up in Geoff, to let the other man bear all of his weight as Michael is sweetly stroked inside and out.

\---

It’s the type of touch he could keep up forever, lazily rutting against Michael, propping him up and giving him slow tugs. There’s so little to it, and such a large payoff as Michael goes steadily incoherent, letting out sounds that are somewhere between a sob and a sigh as Geoff grinds against his prostate and ghosts along his hard-on.

Eventually he has to change tactics, though, with the saliva going sticky in his hand. He releases Michael, who lets out a hollow groan, and kisses the skin behind his ear, building up more speed, more movement again as he strokes into the smaller man.

“Do you wanna get on top?” he asks gently in between movements.

“Oh my god, Geoff,” Michael says, not even bothering to answer the question fully, just dropping forward and catching himself on his hands and knees. It’s a break in the serious moment that neither of them knew they needed, and Geoff’s low chuckle is met with a full laugh from Michael as they reposition themselves.

\---

Michael kneels at the side of the bed, watching Geoff intently as he arranges himself back on the pillows. The other man looks serene and flushed, with an air of tranquility betrayed only by his hair, which has tufted out in a hundred different directions, and his mustache, which has gone crooked.

Michael moves to straddle him, kissing his forehead where an errant curl lies. He looks younger, Michael realizes. Unconcerned.

The view from on top of Geoff is much more interesting than it had been below him. From here, he can watch those hands covered in black patterns tracing invisible shapes up and down Michael’s torso. He can watch the heave of Geoff’s chest as he sighs with contentment. And he looks on as Geoff’s hand finds the lube he’d tossed up earlier, as he slicks his hand once more and then slicks Michael’s hard-on.

Michael enjoys the sight, then, of Geoff stroking him with a deep, practiced care. Each jerk has a flourish as he twists his wrist, moving his palm and fingers differently each time so that no nerve ending is neglected, no patch of skin knows when it will next be stroked. Michael hums steadily through a smile that’s broken only as Geoff swipes a thumb over his slit, an exclamation point of sensation at the end of a stroke.

Michael leans down, then, repositioning himself and kissing Geoff deeply, licking into him as he fucks into Geoff’s hand.

It’s Geoff’s turn to groan now as Michael worries the other man’s bottom lip with his teeth. At the same time, Michael works his hips, strokes into Geoff’s steady, curled palm. Geoff’s other hand finds Michael’s back, ghosts down to the valley of his ass, stroking and squeezing him before grabbing himself, pressing his cock against Michael but not into him.

Michael reworks his tempo, then, so that he alternates his thrusts back to stroke against Geoff’s shaft and then back up to fuck into the man’s hand.

The silence and seriousness has worn off, and although neither of them are _desperate_ , they find themselves moaning into each other’s mouths. Michael knows he could get them off just like this but it’s not enough--even after the short absence, he’s aching to be filled again--and after a moment be breaks off and sits back.

He finds the lube after a moment, and gives a generous second coat to Geoff’s cock before pressing the bottle into the other man’s hand.

\---

Geoff takes the hint, and slicks Michael again--but he almost drops the small bottle at the sight that meets him next, the axis of the world tilting with the suddenness of heightened arousal as he watches Michael grab him by the base of his cock and sink slowly, effortlessly down.

It’s all he can do not to arch off the bed in desperation at the sight--and by the look on Michael’s face, Geoff realizes that _he_ himself must have made the ruined, strangled moan that just rang out in the quiet room. The boy looks like he’s discovered some sort of particularly impressive sleight of hand, a huge white smile cracking so wide across his face that his eyes crinkle and almost squeeze shut.

“Good?” he asks, dipping forward to kiss Geoff’s jaw.

“Very good,” Geoff says, forming the words deliberately, caressing Michael’s sides, enjoying the feeling of Michael’s slicked cock against his own belly as Michael starts to rock slowly across Geoff’s hips.

Michael is remarkably restrained, only moving his hips by a few degrees at first--and Geoff is surprised by what it ignites in him, realizing that it’s taking real conscious thought not to dig his fingertips into Michael’s thighs, not to rut up into him at a punishing pace.

But no, he’s too pleased now to watch Michael work, and after they meet in a kiss for a moment, Michael rocks backwards, balancing on his knees and finding a better angle. Geoff lets his pelvis pivot into a more comfortable position, and their eyes meet for a moment--both men knowing that this will be the way they find release together this time.

WIth their eyes locked, with that exchange of invisible data, it’s impossible to stay serious for more than a moment, and their expressions change in the same instant: half a smirk growing across Michael’s face, and a closed-mouth chuckle building in Geoff’s throat.

Michael hears the quiet “hnn hnn hnn” of the other man’s appreciative laugh and he puffs his own laugh though his nose, rolling his eyes at the fact that neither of them can remain serious--and the knowing, familiar affection in the split-second exchange overtakes the both of them and their tempo goes steady.

Michael works his slender hips easily, tracing an even but elliptical path over Geoff’s body. Up on his knees and moving now, Geoff can watch every muscle in his torso at work as he slides and strokes. There are times when Michael is goofy and off-balance, bordering on slapstick even in bed--but right now he’s a picture of grace as he works Geoff’s cock as naturally as if he were walking or breathing.

Bodily pleasure finally begins to overtake emotion, and Geoff can feel a tight pulse of orgasm building in his stomach, small but growing like a ship on a distant horizon. He wants to take care of Michael, first, and as his hand meets Michael’s hard-on again, the man smiles down at him knowingly. The smile breaks open, though, at Geoff’s first stroke, and Michael moans into the air.

“G-god, Geoff,” he says, sounding almost embarassed. “I’m so fucking close.”

\---

He can barely see Geoff’s eyes under the heavy lids, but the man underneath him nods gravely at the statement.

It won’t take much, now that Geoff is filling him, stroking him, to send Michael careening and coming--and with that knowledge, Michael lets his body take over, abandoning the elegant motions, letting his body set its own desperate pace finally as he bounces on Geoff’s cock.

The hard strokes are like pulling the trigger on a loaded gun and Michael hiccups and loses himself immediately as Geoff groans at the new stimulation, struggles to keep his hand on Michael, to keep up.

The orgasm that follows is strange and multi-layered and something that Michael feels from the base of his balls to the tip of his nose, and he can hear his own rough and almost confused moan as if it originates somewhere outside of his own throat. He looks down expecting to watch himself in the middle of painting Geoff’s belly, only to realize that he hasn’t even begun to come yet, that what he’s felt so far is just the precursor to the most amazing orgasm of his life, and so he keeps moving, keeps rocking his hips hard, another moan tearing from his throat.

Finally the orgasm rakes through his body, not going from one direction to another but feeling as if it explodes in from every corner of him. Everything in his head seems to go loud and bright, like he exists in that moment only to feel the steady pressure that pulses into his nerves, and his body goes strange and foreign beneath him as his legs spasm hard and he bucks into Geoff’s hand--and Geoff--suddenly he remembers Geoff, catches his eyes and takes in the look on his face, ecstasy that looks almost like pain or outrage, and on the tail of his own orgasm, Michael watches the beginning of Geoff’s.

His dark eyebrows knit together, the expression deepening, and Michael watches with great interest as Geoff tilts his head back, moaning an open-ended “ohh” that gets louder as he goes. Geoff grabs onto his hips like a man drowning, and he bucks off the bed, carrying Michael with him for his last few strokes. The moan collapses in on itself then, turning into a shuddering breath as Geoff’s eyes close--and the pressure inside of Michael becomes fuller, bordering on painful now as Geoff comes hard into him.

\----

Geoff opens his eyes feeling like he’s arrived on some foreign shore after a long journey, looking up at Michael as the two of them shudder and breathe and puff soft laughs through their noses. Michael’s slight weight shifts on top of him and Geoff fights the sudden compulsion to grab him again, to hold him where he is.

But he’s not leaving.

Michael retrieves the discarded shirt from the head of the bed without moving from his seat across the other man’s hips, and he gently swabs the streams and pools of his orgasm off of Geoff’s belly, wiping his own hand and groin before letting himself fall forward heavily onto Geoff’s chest.

Geoff hums happily, draping an arm across Michael’s back.

“Fucking hell, Geoff,” Michael says under his breath.

Geoff knows it’s as close as he can come to a compliment in their present state, and he chuckles, working his fingers through Michael’s hair and breathing deeply. And it’s as if neither of them completely comes back to reality, both drifting into a half sleep as slowly they find a more comfortable position, Michael shifting his weight beside Geoff on the bed, Geoff pulling him, squeezing him into his chest as they coast into unconsciousness.

\---

“Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Geoff has no idea how long they’ve slept, but Michael’s sudden panic jars him. The younger man has sat up at an abrupt angle and is staring out strangely into the room.

“Hm?” Geoff asks, pushing up onto an elbow.

“The fucking chili, Geoff, fuck me,” Michael says.

Geoff laughs then. He really had forgotten about it--not that it would be made anything but better by the long simmer it’s received.

“You hungry?” he asks through a smile.

Michael works through some equation in his head before shrugging, letting out a huge sigh, and thumping bodily backwards onto the pillows.

“Yeah,” Michael says finally, grinning. “I could eat.”

 


	31. Chapter 31

As Geoff ladles out chili and rattles off the many reasons why _The Secret History_ is one of his favorite pieces of fiction from the ‘90s, Michael is struck with a moment of emotional vertigo.

There’s an odd balance to the two of them, he thinks. It’s almost too easy to go from meaningful looks, hand-written poetry, earth-shaking and profound sex to… whatever this goofiness is. Geoff barefoot in pajama bottoms, his hair sticking out in fifty different directions, lecturing like he might as well be in front of a class.

It’s easy to forget who they are when they’re together. To get a little lost.

“So what did you end up thinking about it?” Geoff asks, sliding up to the bar and depositing both of their bowls before sitting down. “I realize we didn’t get to talk about it right after you finished.”

“Please tell me that state colleges are nothing like that?” Michael says.

Geoff laughs.

“They’re not,” he says. “God, though. When I read that book all I wanted to do was disappear into that world. If I’d have had the resources, I would’ve absolutely ended up at some private school in Vermont trying to recreate the early chapters.”

“I mean, I liked the characters--I just don’t think I could stand any of them in real life.”

“Well, I think you’ve got a better sense for people than I did when I read _The Secret History_ for the first time.”

“Yeah? How old were you when you read it?”

“Seventeen,” Geoff says. “And falling deeply in love with anyone who could read above a fifth grade level or name a favorite poet, regardless of gender, age, or suitability.”

Michael laughs.

“Maybe I’m not as different from Geoff at seventeen as you think,” Michael admits. Geoff’s expression changes--a microexpression flashing by somewhere between concern and hurt, barely perceptible before Geoff swaps it for neutrality again--and Michael pushes forward, not wanting to linger on whatever way he’d just put his foot in his mouth. “I’m guessing those people were few and far between in Alabama?”

Geoff slings a crooked smile at that.

“Yeah, ya think?”

Michael blows cold air across a spoonful of chili before trying it. It’s predictably delicious.

“Sometimes I want to tell you that your cooking sucks, just to break up the monotony,” Michael says.

\---

After dinner, Michael talks Geoff into watching a movie.

The cabin has a large TV with a DVD player, a cabinet full of movies--and as Geoff does the dishes and portions off the rest of the chili, Michael selects a movie.

“What about ‘Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade’?” Michael asks from the living room.

“Uhh, yeah, I guess,” Geoff says. “Which one is that?”

“The third one,” Michael says, coming back into the kitchen with the DVD box.

“I’ve never seen any of them all the way through,” Geoff admits.

“Holy shit,” Michael says. “ _Holy_ shit. Did you even live on earth before you met me?”

Geoff shrugs.

After a few minutes, he joins Michael in the living room. He’s beaming, sitting cross-legged on the couch, remote control in his hand, and he starts explaining all of the reasons why they’re going to watch “Raiders of the Lost Ark” first, since Geoff has never finished any of them, and why it’s important to Geoff’s experience as a human being that he watch and pay attention to these movies, and _holy shit_ how does someone reach the age of thirty without having seen these fucking movies, dude?

Michael starts the DVD and watches, rapt, pointing out details he wants to make sure Geoff doesn’t miss--clearly happy to be in his element, where he can explain something to Geoff for once. And even though he doesn’t care too much about the movie, Geoff is happy to humor Michael.

His chatter dies down after about 20 minutes and he sinks back into the couch. A few minutes later and his head is in Geoff’s lap as he lays down across the couch.

The feeling is warm and familiar and makes Geoff think about college, the many times he’d found himself on couches watching things he didn’t care about and just happy for the company.

It’s been many years since he’s owned his own television--not because he’s a snob or because he thinks it’s a useless pursuit. Geoff just knows his own tendency to get sucked into television. When he’d lived with roommates, he’d find himself alone and up at 4 a.m. on the tail end of some stupid cable marathon, watching the 25th episode of “Cops” through bleary eyes.

Better to deny himself the option entirely.

It’s a nice way to mindlessly pass the time with Michael though, he thinks, running his fingers through the other man’s hair as he sleeps quietly.

What a strange island of peace, he thinks, after the past few months.

Hell. It’s more peaceful than any time he can remember before that, too.

\---

Michael wakes sometime after 3 a.m., the “Raiders of the Lost Ark” menu music looping quietly on the TV. He’s still in Geoff’s lap, the other man sleeping at an awkward angle, his head thrown back.

“Hey,” Michael says gently, a hand on Geoff’s shoulder. “C’mon. You’re gonna kill your back.”

Geoff wakes slowly, sitting still and struggling to open his eyes. Michael watches a grin spill across his face as he sighs.

“Michael,” Geoff says, as if waking up to him was the best surprise he’s ever had in his life.   
“Yeah, Michael,” he says, “Michael wants you to go to bed before you break your fucking neck.”

Geoff’s eyes close again and he yawns silently before heaving himself up, following Michael across the cabin and up the spiraling stairs.

\---

Michael wakes up with the sunrise, light streaming into the room.

He debates whether or not he should wake Geoff, but his boredom gets the better of him quickly, and he flips to face the other man. Geoff is sleeping deeply, resting on his stomach with his face buried at an uncomfortable looking angle into his pillow. Michael strokes a hand across his back, and Geoff scrunches his face.

“Still not used to waking up on a Saturday without a hangover,” he says, voice strange with sleep.

“Nice to see you getting some practice at it, at least,” Michael says.

All at once, Geoff is gathering him up, snaking an arm under Michael’s neck and another one across his side--and the larger man pulls himself in, resting his head against Michael’s chest and looping his arms together behind Michael.

“So,” Michael says, tangling their legs together. The other man is surprisingly warm. “What’s on the schedule today?”

“Hm,” Geoff says. “Whatever you want. We could go see Coastal, maybe. Get that out of the way today.”

And while the thought of visiting the college had been the piece of the trip Michael was looking forward to the least, here wrapped up in bed, he feels suddenly brave. Suddenly invincible.

“Sure,” Michael says. “Let’s do it.”

“Yeah?” Geoff says, squeezing him. “I don’t have to drag you kicking and screaming?”

“You’ve made it worth my while so far,” Michael says. “I can deal with manning up and seeing a college, I think.”

“I’ll hold your hand if you get scared,” Geoff says. “Promise.”

“Fuck off, dude,” Michael says through a smile.

\---

As they approach Bellingham, Geoff feels a pleasant nostalgia settle in his chest.

The city--the university--had meant everything to him.

A fresh start. A place where he could be the _good_ parts of himself and leave the rest behind in Alabama. Where no one knew him and no one needed to know him unless he chose that for himself.

He’d come on an enormous English grant, with a stipend big enough to buy himself a moped to get around Bellingham after he arrived. The dorms were clean and warm, the dining hall filled with more options than he’d imagined possible--constant variety at his fingertips.

Everything he’d owned of significance had fit into two enormous suitcases, and it had been a near-miracle that both of them arrived with him after four layovers between the Mobile and Bellingham airports.

He can remember the first taxi ride into the city, like nothing he’d seen before, all of the promise it held for him. He can remember the feeling that he’d never have to go back to Alabama if he didn’t want to. The freedom of it.

He hadn’t seen the city through fresh eyes that way in a long time. Hadn’t thought about it much since he packed up for the first time to leave Bellingham 12 years later, to get on the long road to Chewelah with the meager history of his life packed in bankers boxes in his hatchback.

With Michael silent in the passenger seat, he’s glad that he made the choice.

\---

Bellingham is five hundred impossible different shades of blue and green and Michael is struck by the fact that the city is like everything good about Chewelah, magnified and increased exponentially. The charming old buildings are more charming and larger. Trees at every turn, bright mountains capped with snow in the distance.

Hell, he thinks. The snow on them even seems whiter.

There’s water, too--turquoise and inviting, even in December.

“This place is like a fucking postcard, Geoff,” Michael says.

“It absolutely is,” he says. “You should see it in summer.”

\---

The buildings of Washington Coastal University are nestled into a hillside and their facades emerge out of the trees as if they had always been a part of the landscape.

It’s a far cry from the type of images that a public, state university generally evokes in Michael’s mind.

Coastal is quiet, of course--most of the students and faculty off on Christmas break. But it’s easy for Michael to imagine what it might be like during the semester, with students chattering on their way to class.

They walk down a path towards a series of large brick buildings, and Michael lets himself imagine Geoff at twenty-three, walking across the campus to teach his first class as an adjunct, maybe a large folder under his arm and an embarrassed, hurried expression on his face.

Had Geoff started out teaching with so many tattoos, Michael wonders. Had they caused such a stir the way that they had at his high school?

He wants to ask, but at the same time, he’s hesitant to break Geoff’s reverie. He files the question for later.

“This is Old Main,” Geoff says as they approach the complex of buildings. “Not necessarily my favorite part of campus, but definitely a pretty spot.”

“So what’s your favorite building?”

“The Wilson Library,” Geoff says, not missing a beat.

“So, show me that,” Michael says.

\---

As they pass Old Main, it begins to sprinkle cold rain.

“Do you have any questions? Sorry I couldn’t bring you when class was still in session,” Geoff says. “I would’ve introduced you to some faculty, at least.”

Michael isn’t sure what to say. He’s tried his hardest to avoid thinking about college and now suddenly he’s on a campus, out and in public with Geoff, and it’s a lot to take in.

“It’s a little intimidating, I guess,” Michael says. “A big change from Chewelah.”

“Intimidating? How so?”

“It’s just all… real, now, I guess,” Michael says, not sure how to put it into words. “College, I mean.”

“It’ll be real faster than either of us know it,” Geoff says. “Even if you don’t go to Coastal… I’m so fucking excited for you, Michael.”

“I’m glad one of us is looking forward to it,” Michael says. “This is a really far fucking drive from Chewelah, you know.”

“Six hours,” Geoff says. “It’s not that bad. I bet I could get it under six.”

“With the way you speed, yeah,” Michael admits. “You probably could.”  

“What’s wrong?” Geoff says, stopping to look back at him.

“It’s just a lot,” Michael says. “Thinking about college, thinking about leaving Chewelah in less than a year. I mean hell, Geoff, this place is fucking beautiful, don’t get me wrong but… I’m having a hard time picturing myself living here.”

“That’s understandable, Michael,” Geoff says, his voice gentle. “It’s going to be a big change, but christ, college can be so fun. It might be hard picturing yourself here now, but it only takes a minute to get used to. And you’ll have so much more freedom--”

“I’m having a hard time imagining you driving six hours just to see me,” Michael admits.

“Michael--”

“And are you, what, gonna stay in my dorm room with me?” Michael says, barrelling forward, the thoughts spilling out of him. “Or rent us some fucking motel room every time you come to see me? Because there’s no way my parents are springing for me to have my own apartment.”

“Michael, it’s not going to be as complicated as you think,” Geoff says.

“How do you _know_ that, though?”

“It’s not going to be as complicated as goddamn Chewelah, I know that much,” Geoff says, He strokes a hand through Michael’s hair--and it’s starting to get damp as the rain continues. “Michael. I’m not going to forget about you the minute you’re out of my sight. You know that, right?”

And fuck, how the hell does Geoff do that, he wonders. Just reads his mind.

“Come on, we’re almost to the library and then we can get going,” Geoff says, slinging an arm across Michael’s shoulders and walking them down the path again. “We can talk about all this later.”

Michael tries to ignore the torrent of worries pushing through his mind and just focus on walking.

\---

It turns out that the library is right next door to Old Main, and Michael hadn’t realized that the building they were walking towards was their destination. The lights in the tall building are on but as they approach, two people push through the large doors.

“Holy shit,” Geoff says, “I didn’t think it would be open.”

Geoff’s off in a flash, suddenly sprinting towards the library and up the stairs, leaving Michael behind. He can’t help but laugh at the unexpected kid-like behavior and he trots after Geoff. The other man disappears through an arched doorway, and after a moment Michael is pushing his way inside of the building too.

And although the outside was all sweeping brick walls and complicated facades, the inside isn’t that much different from any other library entrance.

“This is your favorite building, Geoff?” Michael says, cocking an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Fuck dude, no, you don’t get it,” Geoff says. “Four central, just follow me.”

The building is virtually deserted as they mount the stairs, and four stories later, the building is suddenly opening up like a cathedral, thick-beamed ceilings giving way to two-story windows, tall bookcases lining the entire room and a ribcage of long study desks throughout the open floor.

“Holy shit,” Michael says. The floor is deserted and it looks like something out of a movie.

“Yeah,” Geoff says, crossing his arms. “Exactly. So. This is the reading room. This is my favorite part of campus.”

“This is like some Hogwarts shit, Geoff,” Michael says.

“Yeah,” Geoff agrees. “It’s just like the rest of Coastal: big and beautiful and intimidating--and if you decide to go here, you’ll take it for granted before you know it.”

“It doesn’t seem like you take it for granted,” Michael points out.

“That’s true,” Geoff says. “I’d thought about places like this growing up, but I never stepped foot into one until Coastal. It still feels pretty powerful.”

Michael tries to imagine Geoff walking into this soaring room at 18, too tall and too skinny and straight from Alabama, not sure how to dress for Washington, no tattoos, still in love with the idea of the rich kids in _The Secret History_ , still utterly unsure of who he was.

It’s becoming easier and easier to picture as they explore his old life here.  

\---

Geoff insists on one last stop before they leave campus and they cross the street towards the student union for lunch. Michael prepares himself for a nondescript food court inside of the towering, modern building. It’s a sharp contrast to the historic brick buildings he’s seen so far and, he can admit to himself, a bit less intimidating.

Inside it’s exactly what he expected--but Geoff ushers him quickly through the food court and into an elevator.

Like the rest of campus, the small cafe Geoff leads him to is mostly empty but still manned with a skeleton crew.

“This place is probably better for coffee than for lunch, but I really couldn’t leave it off the tour,” Geoff says as they approach the counter. “They have sandwiches though.”

Something about the setting allows Michael to see the cafe--secreted away in this building with no signage to lead students to it--like Geoff must have seen it years ago the first time he arrived: warm and littered with couches and coffee tables, every bit the romantic backdrop for writing poems and considering the vast philosophical questions of life.

It’s not necessarily Michael’s cup of tea, but just seeing how Geoff affectionately surveys the familiar room makes his heart feel good. He can picture Geoff, still underfed and maybe with a few tattoos at that point, bouncing between the library and the little secret cafe, hauling too many books and drinking too much black coffee.

Could Michael carve out his own identity in a place so thoroughly _Geoff_ , he wonders?

\---

Michael’s gone quiet over lunch, and Geoff tries not to push him too much, even though his curiosity is so intense it’s starting to make his skin itch. He wants to know every single little impression that Michael has about the campus. He wants to know whether there’s anything here that’s exciting and intriguing, or if Michael is just a ball of nerves at the thought of leaving the dull familiarity of Chewelah?

Now that they’re here together, in an old campus haunt, it’s easy to look across the table and think of Michael as a college student. Geoff had seen so many of them over his years on the campus, fresh from high school and riding high on their freedom. Or, like Michael, intimidated by the sense of history surrounding the place, by the enormity of their own lives sprawling out seemingly endless in front of them.

What kind of college student will Michael be, Geoff wonders.

Thanks to Geoff’s presence in his life, the boy is constantly straddling that strange line between teenager and adult. Would adult take over sooner rather than later? Would Michael make it to college already jaded about his own experience?

\---

By early afternoon, they’re already headed back to Index. Geoff had taken them through the bookstore so Michael could pick up a course catalogue, a campus map, a few other things to bring back to his parents. It only takes Michael a few minutes to fall asleep in the car.

And as they mount the highway away from Bellingham, Geoff is struck suddenly by how much he misses the town. It had really become home for him, against all odds. The small corner of the world he felt ownership over.

He misses his students there, the warm routine he’d fallen into, his old condo. And yet even the pleasant memories lack the kind of depth he’d found with Michael in the last few months. Home is Chewelah now.

Or, more precisely: home is where Michael is.

For Geoff, Coastal had been an escape from everything he wanted to leave behind.

For Michael, he realizes with a pang of regret, Coastal would mean leaving everything he wants behind him in Chewelah. At least, that’s probably how he’s feeling now, Geoff thinks. And for a moment, despite all of the good, despite the swelling feelings he can barely keep in check lately, for a moment Geoff truly despises himself, regrets his presence in Michael’s life during such a pivotal time.

If it came down to it, would Geoff allow himself to let Michael make the kind of mistake he’s probably tempted to make? Would he let Michael stick around, watch Michael neglect his own potential, just because of him?

It’s a question he’s not ready to answer.

\---

Michael seems to get a second wind when they arrive back at the cabin, and whatever worries were weighing on him lift a bit.

“Are you sure I have to go to college, Geoff?” he whines from the couch as Geoff makes a pot of coffee. “We can’t just… move to Index. Live in a cabin?”

“God, do I wish,” Geoff says. “Maybe that can be the plan after you graduate.”

He joins Michael after a minute.

“Michael, I don’t think that college is necessarily the end-all, be-all of everything. To be honest, for a lot of teenagers it’s just a big daycare where they can party and take a few classes and figure out what they’re good at in a low-consequence environment. But when I think about how much you’ve learned from me in one semester, and how much you have left to learn? You _gotta_ go, dude.”

“I know,” Michael says. “I get it. Doesn’t mean I’m excited about it.”

“Anyway,” Geoff says. “We don’t have to keep talking about school. You did your duty and you went to visit Coastal. The rest of the weekend is ours.”

\---

They regroup apart from each other for a few minutes, taking turns showering.

Geoff remembers the fake ID upstairs and retrieves it, shredding it with a pair of kitchen shears until it’s nothing but unintelligible ribbons of laminated plastic, soon to be forgotten in the trash next to the coffee grounds.

It feels good to watch it go.

He pours a finger of the bourbon Michael had gotten him, a fitting last use for the ID, and settles onto the cabin’s couch with the book he’d given Michael as he waits for him to finish his shower.

It’s odd to see the layers of his own handwriting in the book, and he flips through the chapters, searching for a passage.

_“Stephen watched the three glasses being raised from the counter as his father and two cronies drank to the memory of their past. An abyss of fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth.”_

Had that been the moment Geoff had bought so deeply into the young character? He’d felt too old for his age for so long, but never read it on the page like that until he’d cracked open the Joyce novel.

_“No life or youth stirred in him as it had stirred in them… Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys, and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon.”_

It makes Geoff smile, now, to read the dramatic passage. It was so easy to think that he’d already shouldered the worst of life’s burdens when he read the passage at seventeen. His teenage angst and self-absorption had kept him from having a wider view of the world.

The thought frightens him, then--the realization that he’d been so confident at seventeen that he had his life sorted out, only to find at 30 that life had ended up much different.

The words “I love you” had been on his lips a thousand times since he’d first thought them about Michael.

But would it be right to bind Michael to him like that? With Michael so young. The words, he knew, would be a promise of more.

Whatever spell had arrested Geoff is broken, though, by the distant clack of billiard balls. Michael, he realizes, must be trying out his cue.

\---

They pass two more nights in Index, far from reality.

Both men fight their doubts admirably, and when their fears are beat back, they can feel the bliss of a shared life.

Michael begins to fill in some of the holes in his knowledge of Geoff’s past--never pushing or prying, but setting the stage, allowing Geoff to tell him if he’s moved to do so.

And on their last morning, Monday, when Michael wakes before Geoff, he finds himself crying.

He cries because of Geoff, because of the unfairness of age, because of the unfairness of college. He cries because he’s never felt so cared for but so lost, too, and because he’s never felt so utterly helpless in the face of the future, in the face of love.

Michael cries because he doesn’t want to leave the little cabin in Index. Doesn’t want life to move forward from that morning, from those days together. From watching Geoff lose at pool, from forcing him to sit through movie after movie, from the smell of firewood burning and the clear air of the mountains. From chili for dinner and eggs for breakfast and Geoff sober and smiling even at midnight.

Geoff’s awake then, thumbing the tears gently from his face, and Michael prepares for Geoff to ask him _why_ \--but as Geoff watches him sadly, Michael knows then that the other man already knows why he’s crying.

\---

Geoff knows, too, that he has no shelter to offer Michael as they both wake up on Monday, and as he gazes simultaneously into himself and outward into Michael’s eyes, copper in the morning light, he knows only that the pain of the unknown is sharp and so pure that it’s almost sweet.

And as he sweeps the tears from Michael’s eyes, it only seems that he’s making it worse, more tears letting loose. So he doesn’t try to stop Michael’s crying. He pulls Michael’s face to his and in desperation they crash together.

\---

They tumble and move, eyes barely opening, lungs barely breathing--and for Michael there is almost a misery in the pleasure as their hips work together, as twin moans escape their lips--because he knows the words won’t come, he knows there’s nothing Geoff can do to keep them from the reality at their backs. And it scares the hell out of him.

\---

Geoff watches Michael catch his breath later that morning.

He can understand the sort of desperation Michael woke up with. He’s been familiar with it for years. And it often ends in a bottle, for Geoff. But in its familiarity, it has become duller for Geoff--and he knows that the hurt is still sharp for Michael.

But still, he watches Michael catch his breath.

The kid is resilient, he thinks with admiration. And Geoff watches his spine straighten out as they pack up to leave. He watches Michael regain his footing, the life come back into his face.

They don’t say much as they prepare to leave and make trips to the car. Certainly it’s bittersweet to be leaving the cabin. But goddamn if Geoff isn’t feeling proud of Michael--he’s swollen up with it, in fact. For the kid’s bravery, his intelligence. He’d been at the edge of breaking down when he woke up and now here is he. His smile is wan and his sighs are deep, but he’s making it.

He’d looked into that existential fucking black hole of the future, as Geoff had many times, and he’d decided to move forward anyway.

And it occurs to Geoff how much stronger Michael is than Geoff ever has been, at 17, at 27, at 30.

Geoff’s fears ease off, then.

Michael is not him. Michael’s a whole other animal. Stronger, smarter. He’s a goddamn wonder.

\---

Michael is zipping up the last bag when Geoff grabs him, tucks him into a sudden kiss. It’s calm and even and lacks all of the frenzy and despair they’d shared in bed--and when they part, Geoff is smiling wide.

“We’re coming back here, you know,” Geoff says.

It takes Michael off guard.

“Yeah, Geoff?”

“Yeah. Whenever you want, we’ll be here. Spring break, graduation, just a weekend,” Geoff says. “Fuck it. We’ll come right back to this cabin. Just say the word.”

Michael hugs him tight.

“It feels like the end,” Geoff says, “but it’s not the end.”

“You promise me that?”

“I promise, Michael.”

\---

Michael actually stays awake for the entire five-hour drive back to Chewelah. It feels like a real road trip, then--sharing a milkshake, getting sick off of gas station candy, shady truck stops, punch buggy with too-hard punching, singing along to tapes too loud. Michael seems to be cheered up, halfway back to normal.

After all: they’re returning to the best case scenario of Chewelah--with Christmas three days away and after that a vast expanse of free time, no school, Michael with his own car. And though there are plenty of unknowns, Geoff thinks, he hopes Michael can look at their relationship with confidence after the trip.

Whatever it is, they’ll survive. As long as Michael wants him, he’ll be there.

\---

It’s dark when they pull into Geoff’s apartment parking lot, and Michael’s little car has accumulated some snow. He wants to hug Michael goodbye, to kiss him deeply--but he’ll see the boy again so soon, it’s a silly risk to take here in the parking lot, here in Chewelah. Geoff settles for squeezing his knee.

“I know I just spent like 800 million hours with you,” Michael says. “But can I come over before we leave for Jersey tomorrow?” a

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Geoff says. “I’d get my feelings hurt if you didn’t.”

“Thanks for showing me your school, Geoff,” Michael says. “And for the cue and. You know. The cabin. Everything.”

“Yeah, Michael,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”

\---

It feels suddenly odd not to have Michael by his side as Geoff unpacks in the small apartment. And it’s strange, he thinks, how quickly he went from feeling entirely comfortable alone to feeling a little lonely now.

It’s acute, though, and Geoff knows it will fade as he settles back in. He’ll need to go grocery shopping, to do some laundry. He’s got a few bills to pay, probably. When he starts back into normal life, he’ll feel less lonely.  

Once everything is set back in its proper spot, his phone set on the charger, the heat cranked up in the small apartment, Geoff bounces down the stairs to retrieve his mail.

There are a few catalogs, plenty of junk mail, a book he’d ordered a week ago--something he’s thinking about teaching in the spring semester.

And in the midst of the mailers and the bullshit, there is one familiar, plain envelope. He tucks the rest of the mail under his arm, holding this one piece out.

Geoff’s hands are shaking.

In his own writing, his mother’s address.

Next to it, in her neat cursive, a single word: _Refused_.

Geoff would throw up, if at that moment he had any connection to his body.

But instead his body feels very far away as he stands, hands unsteady, following the tight coils of the letters. The graceful swoop preceding the R. The right-leaning d. So distinctly the pretty script of his mother’s hand.

The first word of her writing he’d seen in five years.

On the bottom right corner, a yellow label from the post office reads “RETURN TO SENDER” and “REFUSED” and “UNABLE TO FORWARD” with a barcode beneath.

He looks from his own name, above the return address, back to hers. Back and forth. He can’t stop his hands shaking.

Geoff drops the unopened letter into a trash bin next to the mailboxes.

He grips the bannister of the cold apartment building staircase too hard and returns to his room.

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

There’s a point at which Geoff stops tasting the alcohol, and that usually comes just before the point where he stops feeling whatever it is he needs distance from.

It seems like over the course of the semester, those two points have traveled farther and farther away from one another.

Whiskey with a beer chaser stops tasting like anything pretty quickly on that Monday night, but the letter still hurts.

Feels like being gutshot--not that Geoff’s ever been gutshot. But he’s always had a lovely imagination. There’s a fleeting moment that night--sometime after the third shot of whiskey--when Geoff wishes he _were_ nursing a mortal wound, not at all because he wishes to die, but because it would at least give him a focus. It would be a real thing that he could understand.

When you’re bleeding out, you know very fucking well why it’s happening and who did it to you.

What he’s feeling now is not as straightforward.

There are more questions than answers--unless, that is, Geoff faces the fact that the goddamn letter in itself is an answer. And by the fifth shot of whiskey, he thinks that this is probably the correct conclusion.

At some point that will later be utterly undetectable, Geoff sleeps.

\---

Geoff doesn’t care what time it is when he wakes up, somehow not hungover--although perhaps it’s just because his body hasn’t had time to deal with everything he put in it the night before.

 _Tuesday,_ he allows himself to think. _Today is Tuesday. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve._

That is as far as Geoff is willing to think.

He’s still in his clothes from Monday. He strips down to underwear and a shirt on the way to the bathroom where he steadies himself with a stiff arm as he pees.

In the kitchen, Geoff measures out 24 ounces of tap water, slams it into his stomach with choking gulps, and takes the three steps back to bed with a bottle in his hand.

\---

Geoff isn’t answering Michael’s texts and it’s starting to annoy him.

His parents had given him the good news right when he walked through the door on Monday--even before they grilled him about his visit to Coastal: they wouldn’t be going to Jersey for Christmas.

His brother’s flight had been delayed and rescheduling had been too expensive.

“We thought the three of us should just spend a quiet holiday here,” his mom had explained on Monday. “What do you think?”

Michael had obviously been all for it. It would be nice to be home for the holiday--give him a chance to catch up with his friends, maybe. And… well, to see Geoff, of course.

He doesn’t text Geoff right away because, hell, he’d just been dropped back into Chewelah after four days together. He could give the man nine or ten hours to breathe before he’s flooding his phone with texts.

But that had been ages ago, and now it’s lunchtime on Tuesday and he still hasn’t heard from Geoff.

Michael doesn’t get pissed off. He doesn’t even get worried. Maybe Geoff had dropped his phone in the toilet, or had just forgotten to charge it. It wasn’t entirely unreasonable to believe the guy got absentminded with technology, and usually they didn’t make plans on such a short timeline.

But what the hell would Geoff have done if Michael had still been trying to make a 4:00 flight to Jersey?

He’ll just head over if he doesn’t hear from Geoff, Michael finally decides. It’s not the biggest intrusion. They’d already agreed they’d see each other today.

Plus, Geoff is his _boyfriend_ , as much as the word makes him kind of cringe. That designation has to count for something--right? When someone is your boyfriend, you’re allowed to take care of them, look out for them. Go visit them.

\---

After Geoff gets back into bed that morning, time moves lightning fast. It’s an odd phenomenon. Usually the days alone go by at a snail’s pace unless he’s buried in reading a new book or working on something for his class.

But the morning spent hating himself and drinking room-temperature whiskey goes by mercifully quick today. Time flies when you refuse to let yourself sober up, Geoff thinks.

There’s something in the back of his mind that knows Michael was planning on coming over today. But the fact that Michael is headed out of state is a strange comfort. He can’t face the kid today--can’t even begin to explain what’s going on without dragging him head-first into all of it.

No. He’s not ready for Michael to go prodding around in this open wound yet. Maybe someday the kid could help him dig out the shrapnel. But not today.

So he doesn’t bother, in the haze of the bender, to worry about his phone. Michael will text him trying to come over before he gets on a plane. He’ll get on the plane after he doesn’t get a reply from Geoff. When he’s ready to talk, Geoff will chalk the missed connection up to something dumb--maybe he’d feign food poisoning or a migraine--and by the time Michael gets back to Washington next week, maybe he’d be ready to move on.

It’ll be easier that way.

Geoff doesn’t even work on keeping track of the amount he’s had to drink. It’s his cheapest whiskey.

He watches the snow fall from his apartment.

When his stomach starts to turn, he makes a sandwich but he only gets a third of the way into it before tossing the rest in the trash.

\---

Mom had worked hard.

Geoff couldn’t hate her.

She’d never _not_ worked hard for him.

He’d just turned out wrong. Like his dad in all of the wrong ways, he guessed--though he couldn’t be sure about that. And in all of the rest of the ways, he was too unlike his mother for her to even begin to understand who he was.

The tattoos started as a way to try and force her hand. It was something Geoff had always wanted and something she’d always hated. So naturally, at 18, in a new city with a bit of cash, he’d gotten one. And then another. And a few more. Whenever he scraped together enough money and didn’t spend it on secondhand booze from an upperclassman, he’d head in for more ink.

Because there would be no turning back after that--so maybe she’d realize that he was his own man, that he’d never fit the mold of what she had in mind.

The first time she saw them was terrible--an experience only bested in its horror by the day he’d come out to her.

And no, he hadn’t expected her to understand what it meant not to be straight or gay--she’d grown up in fucking Alabama. But he hadn’t expected her to be so vehement in her assertion that he’d made a “choice”--and that it was the wrong one.

In the same way, she took the tattoos as a personal affront.

Mom was always keeping score, after that. A girlfriend was a mark in the “good column.” Another tattoo, in the “bad.” A full time job was good. A job in academia was bad. A boyfriend was unspeakably bad.

Geoff’s not a dumb guy. He should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve known that whether or not he was happy didn’t earn a tally mark. He should’ve seen that the fact that he was in love didn’t enter into the equation.

He’d gone so into the goddamn red with her that he realizes, now, that he’s a lost cause in her eyes. Or, equally as likely, she is so utterly ashamed at who her son is that she’d rather try to move forward without him.

It makes all of the self loathing Geoff had cultivated during the long years under her roof coming flooding back into his chest, doubling and becoming more nuanced now. He has even more reasons to hate himself now, after all, than he’d had at 18. More mistakes. More embarrassments.

But most of all, the letter hurts. The realization feels lonely.

He loves her--in spite of it all and the seven years of screaming at each other and the five years of silence after that, Geoff loves her.

How do you explain all of that to an eighteen year old kid--with a brother, with a mom and a dad and a car and a boyfriend and friends who know who he is, friends who support who he is?

How do you begin to help him wrap his mind around the situation, to help him understand how much it makes Geoff hate himself--how much it makes Geoff doubt every choice he’s made this year and the years before that.

How do you make sense of this situation to Michael fucking Jones?

You don’t, Geoff realizes. You don’t even try.

\---

The knock on his door doesn’t even register at first.

He’s got a book open on the windowsill and he’s reading by the dying afternoon light, propped in a chair and watching snow. He keeps having to start over on paragraphs, realizing that in the whiskey haze he’s lost his place or not even paid attention as he scans the words.

Geoff ignores the second knock.

Must be a neighbor wanting something. He’ll just pretend not to be home. He doesn’t want to talk to any of his neighbors drunk.

The third knock is accompanied by a worried, loud voice.

“Geoff?”

What the fuck was Michael doing in Chewelah. He was supposed to be on a plane to Jersey right now.

Geoff panics for a moment and really considers pretending not to be home. But that’s absurd. Still, he hadn’t prepared for whatever this is.

“Geoff are you in there? Are you ok?”

“Yeah, give me a second,” Geoff says.

He almost feels halfway capable of pretending to be sober until he stands to cross the small apartment. Suddenly Geoff feels like his legs don’t belong to him, and it’s difficult to communicate between brain and body what should happen to get him to the door. The sensation throws him into an even deeper panic. He can barely fucking walk straight.

“Geoff, what the hell’s going on?”

There’s no time to come up with an excuse that’s even halfway decent--so he gives up trying. He shuffles slowly, cautiously towards the door, trying to make sense of which way is up, which way is forward.

Might as well make this quick.

\---

Michael’s really freaking out now. Geoff sounds weird as hell and Michael wants to know what’s happening.

He expects Geoff to throw open the door, but he just cracks it at first.

“Are you OK?” Michael wants to know, peering at the sliver of Geoff’s face in the doorway.

“Yeah, uh, what happened with your flight?”

Geoff continues to sound weird as fuck.

“Can I come in?” Michael asks, trying to understand why Geoff is being ridiculous. He’s treating Michael like he’s some stranger that’s showed up on his doorstep with religious pamphlets. Geoff doesn’t even answer him.

“It’s cold in the hall,” Michael says after it becomes unclear whether or not Geoff will even let him in.

“Sorry,” Geoff says finally, opening the door all the way for him.

There’s no chaos within the apartment, no water leak or fire. None of the things Michael had begun to dread on the way over. The worst of it all is just an unmade bed, a bottle of whiskey on the windowsill, and a paperback book lying open on the floor.

Geoff, on the other hand, looks to be a wreck.

His pupils--or what Michael can see of them under Geoff’s heavy eyelids--are blown wide and his eyes rimmed with skin that looks rubbed raw. He’s swaying on his feet a little bit as he makes his way to a bar stool. His posture is all wrong. It’s like looking at a stranger.

“What the fuck Geoff--are you ok?”

“Yeah, a little under the weather,” Geoff says. His voice is thick and boozy and it sounds like his nose is completely stuffed up.

“Did you forget that I was going to come over today?”

“No, I just,” Geoff says before trailing off. “I felt like shit. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“At least you could check your phone, christ,” Michael says, trying not to get angry. “Seriously, what’s going on? You were just going to stand me up and hope I didn’t come over?”

Geoff frowns.

“What are you doing here?” Geoff asks. “What happened to Jersey?”

“My parents decided not to go,” Michael says, “which you’d know if you had checked your fucking phone at _all_ today.”

Geoff tilts his head--he can’t argue with that, apparently.

“I thought you’d be happy--I’ll be home for the whole break.”

Geoff looks anything but happy at the news. He looks frantic--trapped.

“What the fuck, Geoff,” Michael says, and he’s really fighting the anger now. It only rises as Geoff sits there: apparently plastered and not defending himself, not even looking at Michael.

“Hello? You ignore my texts and calls all day and all you want to know is why I’m here?” Michael demands. “Have you just been sitting here drinking for the past day?”

“Yeah,” Geoff says, still not looking at him but nodding at least. “Yes.”

“Is that your plan for the whole break?”

“At this point,” Geoff says, frowning. “Pretty much.”

Geoff is shutting down and Michael still has gotten _nothing_ from him and his frustration is compounding, going hot, rising.

“Did I fucking do something to you, Geoff?”

“No, not at all,” Geoff says. He looks at Michael and his face isn’t kind. “I didn’t think you were going to be here. For Christmas. At my apartment. I need some--I need time.”

It made no sense. What the fuck had happened between the time Michael had left last night and the time he’d texted Geoff this morning?

“What did you do?” Michael says.

“I didn’t do _anything_ \--goddamn it, Michael,” he says. “Did you not hear what the fuck I just said? I need space.”

Michael is transported to that first class they’d spent together in September.

Here he is again. The little kid.

Geoff unfair and bristling, holding all the cards, posturing.

“Sure thing,” Michael says, turning to the door, his throat constricting in a way that was too familiar. He wouldn’t cry here.

“Goodbye, Geoff.”

\---

Geoff knows that alcohol won’t solve any of the problems that it’s just created.

But that doesn’t stop him from drinking.

\---

Even though they signified a day off, Sundays had always been the worst to Michael. The looming presence of Monday was enough to throw the whole day off. How could you enjoy yourself when you knew school was right around the corner? And not just a day of school. An entire goddamn week.

Christmas break had always been, then, like a few weeks of Sundays.

Sure, you got the holiday--that was fun, or at least as much fun as you could get cooped up with your insane fucking family. But no matter how nice it was to get a break, it was completely impossible to forget that once January rolled around, there would be an entire semester of school waiting for you.

Michael had expected that this Christmas break would be different.

And it had certainly started out different. Tucked away in that goddamn cabin with Geoff, it had felt several orders of magnitude different than the start of any other Christmas break.

But the break has taken a complete 180.

And sure: loving Geoff requires a certain comfort when faced with emotional vertigo.

That much is clear.

There are times when he’s expected Geoff to be shitting his pants with anxiety--like the day of his meeting with Hullum--and instead he finds Geoff serene and cooking pasta fucking primavera. Yeah, that had certainly been disorienting.

And then there are times when he expects Geoff to be content with life… like today. And instead he finds a man that Michael feels like he barely knows, hesitant to even let Michael into his apartment.

That was more than emotional vertigo. That hurt.

They’d spent hours in that apartment. Michael had fixed the goddamn lights. He’d unpacked the kitchen. He’d watched Geoff turn it from an anonymous shoebox he used to get drunk in after school into a real home that they both could be proud of.

In fact, Michael had begun to feel like in some ways that apartment is _his_ home too, from the goddamn drapes to the new armchair to the photos on the wall. If it weren’t for him, Michael realizes, Geoff may have never even unpacked all the way.

And suddenly Michael is not welcome there?

It’s dizzying that Geoff could turn like this on a dime.

And yes, Michael had certainly acknowledged that he only knows a small sliver of the history and reality that come together to make up the life of Geoff Ramsey, English teacher and poet and _boyfriend_ for christsakes--but hadn’t he accepted that? Hadn’t he been patient?

“That’s fucked up,” Geoff had said that night after the meeting with Hullum, soothing Michael’s anxieties. “You really think I could abandon you that easily?”

And yet, here they are.

Michael alone and afraid to intrude. Suddenly unsure of where they stand and why.

\---

There is no distinct moment when Geoff wakes up on Wednesday. It’s more of a drifting, half-remembered dreams mixing with reality.

The cheap bottle of whiskey is gone--and while there is certainly other liquor available in the apartment, it’s been a decade since Geoff had finished an entire bottle of liquor while drunk.

There’s a moment where he stands in the kitchen--it’s probably early morning--just before he’s finished off the bottle and Geoff wonders what constitutes a bender. Was it a well-defined unit or time or was it more of a state of mind? Was it an empty party-sized bottle of whiskey?

He gets sick long before he starts to sober up, vomiting up the bit of sandwich he’d had, followed quickly by a foul mix of bile and water and whiskey.

The tiles on the bathroom floor are clean and cold. Geoff has never looked at grout this close up. The cool, dry tiles feel good on his face, feel like a nice enough place to anchor his reality while the room spins.

He tries to sort things out from there--flipping now and then to find a fresh place on the bathroom floor whenever the current patch grows too warm from his face, pausing to vomit, but mostly just closing his eyes and appreciating the feeling of skin on tile.

Geoff had dreamed frantically about text messages. He’d texted… Burnie, Gus, Joel, Ryan. He’d texted Michael. This, he realizes, felt very real but it had all been a dream. He’s not even sure where his phone is--hadn’t brought it out since he got home on Monday.

Monday was two days ago. Yesterday was Tuesday. Today is Christmas Eve.

Michael had entered his apartment again and again in Geoff’s dreams, but Geoff clumsily stitches reality back together and realizes that only one of the instances had really happened. The rest had just been echoes in his mind. Michael yelling at him--or worse, Michael yelling for him, needing him, and Geoff frozen, unable to help.

Dreams. Just nightmares. Only the one time had happened.

That was a nightmare, too.

Geoff tries to work out what he’d said to Michael. He can only half-remember it. He’d asked Michael to leave. He’d been very drunk and embarrassed. He’d said he wanted space.

Geoff snorts a laugh on the floor of his bathroom. He doesn’t want space from Michael. Space from the one person who gave a shit about him? What a fucking laugh. He wants Michael Jones here, propping him up, pressing a cup of coffee into his hands. He wants Michael concerned but smiling in the early morning hours, giving him a dry scone to help him sober up before class.

Hell, he’d even take Michael cornering him in his classroom--Michael confused and hurt and angry.

Any iteration of Michael would be better than this.

\---

By noon, Geoff can finally keep a soda down and the room has stopped moving independent of the laws of physics. His head feels like it’s splitting open, but he starts to paw through his bag to find his phone.

Incredibly it still has battery life left--probably because he hadn’t touched it in days.

The lock screen shows 4 missed calls, 3 voicemails, and 8 new text messages. Christ. He unlocks it.

The texts are all from Michael and he ignores them for now. He’s not ready to see whatever fucking havoc he’d caused. Two of the voicemails are from Michael too--both on Tuesday. The last voicemail is from Burnie about an hour ago. He clicks that one.

“Yo,” Burnie says brightly. “You need a designated driver for Gus’s shindig tonight? Hit me up if you want me to swing by--I don’t mind driving. Hope you’re, uh, you know alive and all that.”

There’s a long pause and it sounds like Burnie’s driving. Geoff wonders if Burnie forgot to hang up, but then he’s back:

“Also? Don’t even think about flaking on this shit. We all noticed how fucking miserable you were after Thanksgiving, and I won’t tolerate your little pity party through Christmas, even if I have to drag you out of that apartment myself. I’m serious Geoff. I know you’re not into the whole ‘fa la la’ and all that shit, but I’m not letting you flake. So call me back.”

Geoff puffs a laugh out through his nose.

It had always pissed him off through college when Gus and Burnie would drag him out of whatever blues he was trying to cultivate. But the voicemail is a nice reminder, now, that a world exists outside of himself, outside of his family, outside of Michael.

He taps a message out to Burnie.

>>Geoff: Just got your vm. Don’t need a DD but I’ll be there. Thanks man.

\---

There’s nothing to do in the fucking house and his parents are already driving Michael completely insane.

Video games are just a reminder that Ray hasn’t called him all month--and Michael has probably botched that relationship for good.

Books are just a reminder that Geoff exists, which he doesn’t want to think about right now.

Television is terrible and everything is some shitty Christmas episode.

There’s nothing to do in the fucking house.

\---

Geoff cleans himself up. He unpacks from the trip. He is very afraid to think about his mother. He is completely unwilling to think about Michael.

Everything hurts--his fucking brain, his muscles, his stomach. But Geoff knows from experience that when life is like this--when it’s miserable physically or mentally or both--all he needs to do is survive.

He dams up the anxiety. If he drinks any more, he’ll be ill again. He just needs to survive.

As he sobers up, Geoff starts with small tasks. Brushing his teeth. Folding a shirt. Taking an aspirin.

Those build to larger tasks. Putting away clothes. Taking a shower. Attempting to eat another sandwich.

There’s nothing mental that has to go into it, he tells himself. Just focus on the task. One task after another.

That’s how he’d survived this far. That’s all he has to do.

\---

Christmas Eve with Michael’s mom and dad is miserable.

It’s not his parents’ fault and Michael tries hard not to take it out on them. But everything feels like an assault.

They want to know about the college trip. They want to hear about Ray. They want to know about how the semester went.

These are all completely reasonable questions, Michael tells himself.

He can see his parents’ expressions change over the course of dinner. His mother, who started the night jolly and excited about the holiday, begins to look more and more concerned. His dad, who had done his best to shoulder most of the conversations that evening, is becoming increasingly frustrated.

Finally, Michael explains to them both that he’s got a headache and it’s only getting worse. He excuses himself early and heads to his room.

After a few minutes, he can hear them Skyping with his brother in the living room. Michael flips face-down on the mattress and presses a pillow over the back of his head. He doesn’t want to hear how lame it sounds when they tell his brother why he’s missing.

\---

During his junior year of undergrad, Geoff had decided not to go home for Christmas.

Things had gotten heated between over the Thanksgiving holiday back in Alabama. Geoff’s new stepdad--who really only knew Geoff secondhand through whatever he’d pieced together from Geoff’s mom’s stories--had been at odds with him from the moment he got home.

Things had come to a head right before Thanksgiving dinner when the man had cornered him in a hallway in his own goddamned childhood house, pressed a palm against Geoff’s narrow chest and suggested that he “cut the shit” and stop embarrassing his mother.

“Cut what shit?” Geoff had spat back at him, knowing full well what the man was referring to.

“All of this fag shit up in Washington,” the man said, hurling the words at him now. “Tattoos, boyfriends--this delayed onset teenage rebellion act. Quit fucking up your mother’s life.”

After that, Geoff wasn’t sure when he’d venture back to Alabama. But Christmas was far too soon. He’d stayed in Washington.

Out of solidarity, Burnie and Gus had stayed in Bellingham with him through the holiday. They decorated the everloving shit out of the apartment the three of them shared and they’d gotten spectacularly drunk together, exchanging presents and sharing family horror stories. On Christmas day, Geoff had cooked a real meal for them all and they’d watched reality TV for hours.

It’s probably the best Christmas Geoff had ever had, he realizes.

So when Gus meets him at the door tonight, ushering him inside of the warm house, the sounds of bad reality TV blaring from the living room and the smell of something baking all hitting him at once, Geoff is hit with a visceral wave of nostalgia.

“Shit,” Burnie says from the couch, holding up a cup of eggnog. “Just like junior year, right?”

“That’s fucking weird, I was just thinking about that,” Gus says, smiling. He takes the bottle of wine from Geoff’s hands and walks it in to Esther in the kitchen while Geoff joins Burnie on the couch.

“More like old times than you realize,” Geoff says.

“Yeah?” Burnie says, hitching an eyebrow. “What, did that asshole Kevin ring you up to wish you a happy holiday and call you a tattooed queer?”

Geoff laughs at that, then, but Burnie quickly goes serious and presses him for the actual story. Steeling himself, Geoff recaps the story of the letter--and more importantly, how it had made its way back to Geoff.

“That’s fucked, Geoff,” Burnie says, looking serious. “Honestly. That’s completely fucked. Are you OK?”

“Not yet,” Geoff says. “I will be.”

“Sounds like you need a drink,” Burnie says, starting to push up off of the couch. Geoff’s stomach turns at the suggestion.

“No--seriously--don’t, I did that already,” Geoff says. “My liver needs a break.”

\---

Geoff recounts the same story to Gus a few minutes later, and Gus brings Esther up to speed on the entire saga. It sounds strange to hear someone else summarize his own relationship with his mom but Geoff appreciates not having to repeat it a third time.

But it’s out there. And the three of them handle it perfectly. They don’t dote on Geoff or treat him gently. Their ribbing is at exactly the same volume as usual.

It’s good, then, to have friends who _know_  but don’t have to handle him with kid gloves. People who can understand what it means to Geoff, who can guess at what he’s going through, but who are perfectly happy to let him work through it on his own.

And Geoff reminds himself for what seems like the millionth time this year that he must not forget that these people are his friends and they deserve his time and he needs to make a real effort to get out and be there for them sometimes.

Dinner is great. Geoff eats cautiously--his stomach still strange from the alcohol earlier--but everything seems to settle correctly.

Gus claps him on the back on the way out the door.

“You know we have a guest room if you want to stay the night?”

“Yeah, thanks man, that’s ok,” Geoff says.

“You’re coming back tomorrow though, right?” Gus asks. “Burnie said he’ll be over at 11, but you can really come over whenever you want. We’ll cook a big brunch, watch some shitty movies?”

“Sounds like a perfect Christmas, Gus,” Geoff says. “Seriously, thank you. You know. Thanks for having us over.”

“Of course,” Gus says, frowning as if it’s stupid to suggest that he and his wife would’ve done anything else with their Christmas holiday. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

\---

Geoff stops at a gas station on the way home and flips his phone open.

He still hasn’t checked the messages from Michael. He wonders if instead they can start with a clean slate. He thumbs to Michael’s contact information in the recent calls log and he taps Michael’s name.

It rings four times before Michael answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Geoff says. “Hope I’m not bothering you?”

“I don’t know,” Michael says, flat. “Are you done needing space?”

“Hm--I. Look, I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“OK,” Michael says. He offers nothing else up and the dead air stretches between them. Geoff doesn’t want to tell him the story about the letter. It’s not why he called.

“How was your Christmas Eve?” Geoff asks instead.

“Fine,” Michael says.

The conversation is crashing and burning. Is this what it felt like for Michael whenever Geoff had shut down?

“Michael, I know you’re mad at me,” Geoff offers.

“OK,” Michael says.

“I fucked up--I really fucked up that entire day and--”

“You know what? Let me stop you right there,” Michael says--and the tone of his voice feels like a slap. “Am I talking to the sober Geoff who writes poetry and takes me to a fucking mountain cabin or am I talking to the drunk Geoff who doesn’t want me in his apartment and needs space? Because if it’s the drunk one, I’d rather not hear whatever nonsense is coming up. And honestly? If it’s the sober one, I’m not going to beg for some fucking explanation about why I showed up to make sure you were still alive and got treated like a goddamn leper.”

The words hit Geoff in waves. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Hello?” Michael asks, finally.

“Yeah, I… I’m sober,” Geoff says. “But that’s… All of that is fair.”

“So. It’s _fair_. That’s your final word on the issue?”

“Michael, fuck, I know I’m making this worse.”

“Then maybe you should stop,” Michael says, cold.

“Is that what you want?” Geoff asks.

There’s a long pause, and Geoff knows that both of them are immediately attaching more weight to the last two sentences than they ought to, that neither of them is talking about the phone call anymore.

“Yeah,” Michael says after a minute. “You know what Geoff? I’m fucking wrecked and I have no idea what’s going on with you and you’re apparently not willing to tell me. So I guess we should get off the phone.”

“I’m sorry. I know. I don’t--”

“I’m gonna go,” Michael says. The line goes dead.

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT the last chapter. There is one more numbered chapter and an epilogue to come after this. <3

Geoff can’t go back to his apartment. Not after that fucking phone call.

When he leaves the gas station, he decides to just keep driving. 

He’s always headed west for his night drives, taking him towards mountains, towards the warm light of Frank’s in Kettle Falls where there would always be a hot cup of coffee waiting for him. 

Tonight he heads east. 

There’s nothing east but Idaho. The highway winds and snakes lonely up and through the terrain. No one is headed this direction on Christmas Eve. Without the headlights of Geoff’s hatchback, the darkness would be all-encompassing. But the dim lights illuminate exactly as much of the road as Geoff needs to navigate, the countryside rushing up to meet him in his journey. His escape. 

Geoff feels a strange depth in that: the lights showing just enough to move forward in the darkness. 

Could he shut down the vast, churning background of his brain and use the same sort of focus to sort through recent events? 

He tries to imagine his consciousness as an endless countryside. Geoff visualizes it, the sun setting on the landscape of his mind until it’s dark and still. Ignore the anxieties and emotions, he tells himself. Use a small light to cut through and find the facts. Ignore what is not illuminated for now.

The sound of the road is white noise as Geoff parses through reality. 

_ The facts are these,  _ he tells himself: _ you love a person deeply, and at the slightest hint of a new stress, you have alienated him. Despite your best efforts, you cannot open yourself. _

He tries to look at the facts illuminated, objective--no attempt to blunt the sharp edges of his mistakes. 

_ You shower affection on Michael, make him promises, _ he tells himself.  _ When it becomes inconvenient, you break every one. _

\---

The anger only carries Michael so far. 

It’s a strange phenomenon, when everything in your heart demands that you scream and yell and berate someone for treating you badly--only to immediately feel terrible once the adrenaline has worn off. 

And yeah, a part of Michael certainly continues to feel bad about the way Geoff has treated him, about the distance between them since Monday. 

But a more substantial part of Michael wants to call back, wants to hear Geoff out, wants to get into his car and drive to that warm, golden-lit apartment where he could throw his arms around Geoff’s waist and tell the man that it didn’t matter, that he didn’t have to explain, that Michael loves him and doesn’t care about whatever it is that’s going on. 

But what do you do in an adult relationship? Michael is out of his depth. 

Do you stick to your guns? Is it too childlike to call Geoff back, to tell him that he hopes he has a good Christmas? 

\---

Geoff gets half an hour into Idaho before he decides to turn around. It’s past midnight.

Christmas, he realizes.

He’s come to a few conclusions, for better or for worse. 

Over many miles, through plenty of introspection, Geoff has decided that the self-loathing that’s been washing over him in waves since Monday night is not misplaced. 

What the fuck had he been thinking this entire time? At the end of the spring semester nothing would change. No, Michael wouldn’t be his student anymore--but he’d still be twelve years younger than Geoff. Michael graduating wouldn’t change the fact that Geoff had started a relationship with a  _ high school student .  _

And after graduation, then what? He’d keep Michael in some sort of ridiculous long distance relationship until the kid could get a college degree? 

Then one more graduation, one more milestone that won’t change the fact that Michael is more than a decade younger than Geoff. Their relationship wouldn’t get any more reasonable with time. 

And Michael’s parents would have questions--of course they would. Even if the two of them lied and said their relationship started long after Michael graduated, the whole thing would reek of impropriety. No parents in their right minds would just welcome Geoff into their family with open arms--not in this situation.  

Geoff had been too lovesick to look realistically at their future together. He’d let himself get swept up in loving someone who seemed to care back with equal intensity--and he’d ignored reality. 

It wasn’t fair, what he’d been about to do to Michael. 

No. He wouldn’t rob Michael of the best years of his life, wouldn’t fuck him up so thoroughly. 

Geoff wouldn’t let their relationship wither over the course of years while he waited for Michael to wake up and see Geoff for what he really is. 

It’s better not to, Geoff decides. 

It hurts, but it’s right. 

\---

When he’s back at his apartment, Geoff pours a few fingers of room-temperature bourbon and downs it, chasing it with a cheap domestic beer. 

His head more than his stomach turns at the alcohol, a reminder of how badly the week had started and how much he’d punished his body. 

But he’d rather a punished body than a punished mind. 

And the bourbon is the only thing that will put him to sleep, his mind still buzzing well past midnight after three hours of aimless, sober driving. 

He tries not to think about what the next semester of teaching Michael Jones will be like and his last conscious thoughts are of that day in the classroom, that first stolen kiss. 

\---

Christmas doesn’t feel like Christmas to Michael.

For one, his brother isn’t there. None of his family aside from his parents are there--making the holiday feel almost like a parody. 

They don’t even sit around the tree and open presents like they normally would. Michael’s only present is the car--not that he’s complaining--and his parents only exchanged a few gifts between each other. 

Sure, his mom is up putting on Christmas CDs and popping canned cinnamon rolls into the oven. His dad has on his prized Christmas shirt while he stokes a fire in their fireplace. But it’s strange without cousins and grandparents, uncles and aunts. Without his brother. 

It’s also strange not to know when he’ll see Geoff again. 

He wonders if Geoff is doing ok--if he’s gone over to Mr. Sorola’s house for the holiday like he’d planned. He does hope that Geoff is with  _ somebody _ and not just sitting alone like he had on Thanksgiving. 

\---

Christmas doesn’t feel like Christmas to Geoff.

He’d played the scene out in his head a few times earlier in the month: imagining himself over at Gus’ house, maybe calling Michael at the end of the night and talking to him while he’s in Jersey. He’d stay sober, he’d told himself, so he could have a real conversation and not a replay of the pathetic soliloquy he’d delivered on Thanksgiving. 

It doesn’t go according to plan at all. 

He sobers up only long enough to make the short drive over. Geoff is the last to arrive at the Sorolas’ on Christmas afternoon, a handful of other faculty members joining Burnie and Gus and Esther. Geoff had tried to enjoy the warm welcome when he walked in, his name echoing through the house, Adam Ellis and Joel meeting him and clapping him on the back. 

He downs the cocktails pushed into his hand and avoids Burnie and Gus as much as he can. He knows he looks like hell.

But it ends up being Esther who corners him.

“You OK, Geoff?” she asks, with something that isn’t quite pity. 

“Yeah,” Geoff says, peering into their fridge for a beer. 

“You know, all that shit with your mom,” she says. “Gus and Burnie aren’t the most sensitive human beings on the planet, and I know you just moved here. If you ever want to talk to someone--”

“Thanks Esther,” Geoff says, probably a little too loud, a little too quick. “I really appreciate it--I’m good. I really--thanks for having me over again.” 

She nods and Geoff can’t get out of the kitchen fast enough. The last thing he needs is for someone to be  _ worried _ about him. Christ. And sadly, none of them even know the half of it.

\---

Geoff wakes up on the morning after Christmas in an unfamiliar room with an unfamiliar body in the bed next to him. 

Burnie.

There’s a moment of utter vertigo before Geoff remembers the day before--beer pong with Burnie and Joel, more drinking after that, harder stuff than beer, vague echoes of Christmas carols (jesus--had they all actually been singing or had Geoff dreamed that?) a friendly Gus insisting that the very inebriated Burnie and Geoff stay the night while Adam had ushered Joel, swaying drunkenly, into the passenger seat of his car. 

Geoff is plenty sober now, though, and he moves to get out of bed and get dressed. Geoff needs to get home. 

His movements wake Burnie up on the other side of the stiff guest bed. The man flips to face Geoff.

“Morning, tiger,” Burnie says. “You’re gonna leave without even waking me up?”

“Shut the fuck up Burnie,” Geoff says with a smile. 

“Wow, I thought I really meant something to you,” Burnie jokes. “I should’ve known you’d have no problem just dropping me the morning after. Typical Geoff.”

Geoff forces a laugh. There’s no way Burnie could know how much the sarcasm cuts him given the current context. 

Geoff stomps his feet down into his shoes and finds his coat that someone had kindly moved to the guest room. 

“Hey--” Burnie says, stopping him at the door. “You’re coming for New Year’s right?”

Geoff had forgotten about the party.

“Yeah, of course,” Geoff says. “You need help setting up?” 

“Sure,” Burnie says. “If you don’t mind, I could use a hand.” 

“No problem,” Geoff says. “I’ll text you.” 

He finds Esther and Gus to apologize about staying over--and they’re gracious as usual, insisting that he’s always welcome. Geoff doesn’t check his phone until he’s safe in his car. 

A new text message from Michael: 

>>Michael: I hope you had an OK Christmas. Can I see you? 

\---

Michael gets a reply about half an hour after he sends the text.

>>Geoff: Yeah, give me 20 minutes. 

He doesn’t give Geoff 20 minutes, though. It takes approximately ten seconds before Michael is pulling on a coat and grabbing his car keys. He shouts to no one in particular that he’s going out, offering no more explanation than that as he trots to his car. 

Michael does his best to keep his mind blank as he drives. His last two interactions with Geoff had crashed and burned spectacularly, and he’s not willing to repeat it a third time. 

_ Blank slate,  _ Michael tells himself.  _ No expectations. _

There was obviously something going on with Geoff that he didn’t want to explain to Michael and sure, that hurt--but Michael had ruminated enough on what it meant to care about someone to realize that sometimes it was OK to simply be there for someone with zero expectations.

_ Just show up. Care. Don’t get mad. _

Michael could be the bigger person this time. He could put himself out there if it meant helping Geoff with whatever the fuck was happening. 

He pulls into Geoff’s apartment parking lot just in time to see Geoff guiding his hatchback into a spot. Geoff gets out immediately, not having spotted Michael yet, and he looks damned rough. Under his coat, Geoff is wearing a cotton button down that was surely ironed at some point but now looks beyond crumpled, hanging untucked over jeans. It looks like he hasn’t tended his face since Sunday, the shadow of a dark, shaggy beard growing in around his mustache and a few inches down his neck. 

The sight makes Michael feel ten types of wrong. He wants to slam the car into park, to run to Geoff and wrap his arms around him and ask what the fuck was going on, to smooth his too-greasy hair and push him into a hot shower, to ply him with coffee, with kisses. 

But instead he parks the car, steeling himself, telling himself to go slow, to give Geoff the right amount of space. 

He realizes that he’s treating a grown man like a flighty animal, but he doesn’t know what else to do at this point.

Geoff sees him now, as he shuts the car door, and the man waits for him at the door to the apartment building. He’s not quite smiling, but he looks fond. Whatever hardness had been in his eyes on Tuesday is gone.

“Hey,” Geoff says softly when Michael is within earshot. Michael jogs the last few steps up to the door. 

“Hey,” Michael echoes back to him, a little brighter.

Geoff doesn’t make a move to embrace him or touch Michael. He turns without another word to walk through the door, holding it open behind himself for Michael. Michael enters and starts climbing the stairs to Geoff’s apartment immediately. Geoff follows, letting them in when they both arrive at the door. 

Geoff’s apartment is about as bad as it had been on Tuesday, a few wrappers and glasses on various surfaces, a different whiskey bottle on the windowsill. It’s cold and the curtain is closed--Geoff must not have slept here last night, he realizes. 

Geoff still makes no move to embrace him, not even in the privacy of the apartment. He lets his keys clatter onto the kitchen counter before crossing the room and collapsing down into his armchair. Geoff makes no move to take off his coat, and as he makes eye contact with Michael for the first time, he rubs his chin hard with one tattooed hand. 

Michael is trying not to let any of it get to him. Being treated like a stranger. The closed-up apartment. The fact that Geoff is holding his cards too close to his goddamn chest like Michael is some sort of enemy. 

He’s trying hard not to let it bother him. But most of the decisions he’d made during the car ride over are falling by the wayside already, and they’ve not even said a fucking thing to each other beside ‘hey.’

\---

It feels unexpectedly terrible to have Michael in his apartment. 

Yes, Geoff wanted to see Michael today. Yes, Geoff needed to speak to him face to face--sooner rather than later. 

Geoff has made a lot of hard decisions since Wednesday night. He’s made his peace with them already. 

But there is an unexpected rush of desire that floods Geoff, fills him up from the soles of his feet. He wants to feel the way that Michael fits into his chest, to touch the graceful bones of his back, to lace his fingers with Michael’s, and hear Michael’s hum of satisfaction. The warmth, the depth of him.

Geoff knows he is a weak man.

And Michael Jones, whether he knows it or not, is the living reminder of Geoff’s weak resolve. 

It’s tempting--very tempting--to unmake all of the decisions Geoff has made. To untie all of those mental knots. Undo the locks and throw the doors open again. Everything about Michael begs for it, from his cautious posture to the way Geoff can almost see the thoughts moving behind his brown eyes. 

And to have Michael here once again in Geoff’s apartment, in this moment of privacy--it makes a mockery of all of the resolutions Geoff has made. This awkward exchange is already a parody of every good thing that had ever transpired in this apartment. 

No, he should not have done it here, Geoff realizes. Anywhere but here. 

\---

Geoff offers up nothing and Michael feels his face going hot and red as they stand in silence, regarding each other. 

Michael doesn’t like this game. He takes a seat on the foot of the bed and breaks the silence.

“So, you stayed out last night?”

Michael meant it as a place to start, but as soon as the words are out, he realizes that it sounds like an accusation. 

“Spent the night at Gus’s place,” Geoff says. “He and his wife had us all over for Christmas.”

“Yeah, I remember you said he was gonna do that,” Michael says. Geoff nods. 

The line of conversation goes nowhere, the silence stretching out again until it feels too loud for Michael to concentrate--too deafening for him to remember anything he’d told himself in the car.

“What’s going on, Geoff?” Michael says.

“We need to talk,” Geoff says.

“Yeah no shit,” Michael says, hurling the words--because of course they need to goddamn talk--the statement is the stupidest thing Michael has ever heard come out of such a smart man’s mouth.

And just like that the conversation is already away from him. 

“What the fuck happened on Monday?” Michael demands.

Geoff shakes his head, closing his eyes. 

“Don’t fucking shake your--don’t treat me like a stranger, Geoff! What’s going on?” Michael says, his voice sounding alien. 

“It doesn’t matter, Michael,” Geoff says. “It made me see a lot of shit that I’d been ignoring.” 

“Yeah? Care to enlighten me?”

“There’s no easy way to say this,” Geoff says--and the statement hangs there in the cold, stuffy air.

Michael’s logical brain comes to a dead stop at the sentence, but his emotions go haywire.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Michael demands. “Seriously, Geoff--I don’t get a say in this?”

“No,” Geoff says, quietly now. 

“I don’t even get to know what’s going on,” Michael says, the words tumbling out of him, and without realizing, he’s standing up from the bed, straightening out. “I don’t even get the fucking dignity of knowing what I did wrong and you’re, what, just going to dismiss me? Fucking September all over again?” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Michael,” Geoff says, calm. “Take a breath. It’s me.”

“Oh that’s very cute,” Michael says, aiming at Geoff and hurling the words now. “‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ right? Not very original for a poet.” 

Geoff doesn’t say anything--just sits there, taking it. His calmness is making Michael feel frenzied, trapped. 

“What the fuck even is this?” Michael demands. “Christ, I’m surprised you didn’t force me to meet you somewhere in public so I couldn’t make a big scene, right? Merry fucking Christmas to me, right?”

“Michael,” Geoff says, nodding and serene. “Take a breath.” 

“ _ You  _ take a fucking breath and think about what the fuck you’re doing right now,” Michael says, unable to control his volume, wanting nothing more than a reaction now. “Swoop in and wreck my life again--that’s great of you. You know, some of us don’t have the luxury of getting drunk to forget what assholes we are. I’m  _ so  _ glad I gave you my ID, perfect timing on that decision.” 

“I know I deserve what you’re saying,” Geoff says, flat. 

“Right, because it’s about what  _ you  _ deserve, Geoff--or what, shit, would you prefer I call you Mr. Ramsey now? It’s always gonna be about what  _ you  _ think is the right thing, isn’t it? What  _ you  _ want to do. I hope someday you’ll look up from your fucking navel and ask yourself what the people around you deserve for once.”

And Geoff does react to that one, pressing his mouth into a flat line. 

Michael is all adrenaline and the tiny change is the spark he needs to continue.

“You’d think someone so self-obsessed might notice how fucked up it is to treat someone like this,” Michael says, his words a torrent. “You disappear outta my life only to come back with this bullshit and zero explanation other than ‘It’s me’--? Fucking pathetic, Geoff.”

Geoff’s chin is tucked into his chest but he looks straight at Michael as he begins to speak, his voice cool and foreign.

“Finally you’re making some sense, kid,” Geoff says. “It really does me good to hear you engage with reality for once.” 

And it doesn’t feel good, exactly, to hear Geoff go cold and angry but it’s something--at least it’s something. 

“If you want to stay here and yell at me a while longer, you’re welcome to it,” Geoff says. “Consider it my last gift to you.” 

“Jesus christ, Geoff, what the fuck?” 

“You’ll understand when you’re older, Michael,” Geoff says, his voice ice. “When you’re thirty, you’ll thank me.” 

“That’s it, then?” Michael asks, suddenly out of steam. 

The fight has drained out of him abruptly. His face feels hot, his throat tight, tears about to betray him. 

“That’s got to be it, Michael,” Geoff says. His blue eyes scan, panicked, settling on the floor. 

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but please know that I’m sorry.” 


	34. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very, very much for coming on this journey with me. So much of my life has changed because of this story. 
> 
> This is the final chapter of The Aftermath. There will be an epilogue coming after this that takes place down the road.
> 
> The next chapter for me? I will be starting a new novel-length project. Please join me over at immortal-outlaws.tumblr.com to read my next long format work, or keep following me here at AO3 to read my shorter fiction.
> 
> I will never be able to express how much your comments have meant to me. Any amount of success that I've gotten from this project, I owe to you.
> 
> \--Kelly

_**Wednesday, Dec. 31** _

Burnie has decided that he and Geoff should make a day out of preparing for his party, so Geoff finds himself over at Burnie's rental house by 10 in the morning on New Year's Eve.

Burnie's energy in the passenger seat next to him feels good. They're taking Geoff's hatchback to the Safeway around the corner to pick up food and mixers. The frigid air is tempered by piercing sunshine and a cloudless sky, and Geoff has sunglasses on for the first time this season.

Geoff has agreed to get all of the food ready, but that shouldn't take long. Then he can move onto giving Burnie help with decorating, getting everything set up.

"You know, if you're not drinking tonight, you should tend bar," Burnie says.

"Well that's a sadistic idea," Geoff says. "Make the alcoholic a bartender."

"Jesus, you're not an alcoholic--lighten up," Burnie says. "It would give you an excuse to talk to everybody, get to know some new people for once."

Geoff mulls it over. Burnie has a point. It would definitely be easier to have everyone come to him. Give him an excuse not to talk to one person for too long, too.

"Plus, it'll keep you from ducking out early and ditching me," Burnie adds.

Well, his friend does have a point there.

"Yeah, I'll think about it," Geoff says.

\---

Gavin gets back to Chewelah late Tuesday night, and he's already texting Michael on the morning of New Year's Eve. Michael rolls his eyes fondly at the stream of texts that come through before 9.

>>Gavin: I miss you my boy

>>Gavin: What're you doing for NYE?

>>Gavin: Oh that's right there's fuckall to do here

>>Gavin: Spending it with me

>>Gavin: Time we catch up

>>Gavin: Also you should take me to the mall today

>>Gavin: I have a present for you

Michael's not even out of bed yet but he flicks open the phone to ring Gavin.

"Michael!" Gavin crows, picking up the phone after one ring.

"You bring me some fish and chips back or what?" Michael asks.

"Better, boy," Gavin says. "Whaddya say you pack a bag and come over?"

Michael doesn't have to consider it for long. He hasn’t seen a friendly face--other than his parents’--in a few days.  

"Yeah, sure," Michael says. "What's this about the mall?"

"Thought you might be up for a little trip out to Spokane," Gavin says. "I'm ready to spend my Christmas money."

"It's probably gonna be packed today--everyone on earth is off work," Michael says.

"Well we'd better hit the road fast then, hm?" Gavin says. The closest mall is an hour away from Chewelah.

"Ok," Michael says. "Let me get some breakfast and I'll head your way."

There’s something swelling in his chest. He’s cheerful, Michael realizes. He’s excited to see Gavin.

**_\----------------------------------------_ **

**_Friday, Dec. 26_ **

The tears don’t start until Michael is safely tucked away at home--though he can feel the sting in his throat in the apartment hallway, in the car, as he is driving. He can feel the tears as he walks through the garage.

But the tears don’t start until the precise moment the door shuts with a high click and Michael is in utter silence.

Michael lets the tears wrack his body. He gives up to them--and in the end, it’s the right decision. Because eventually, the tears will stop.

It’s different from a love poem, where the protagonist first must cry an ocean before rising, wiser and world-weary like a warrior--honed by the sadness, taught a lesson. No, this type of crying accomplishes nothing and it teaches Michael nothing. It’s a purge and it’s not pretty--watery snot materializing out of nowhere. Eyes raw and sensitive. The only thing in his head is a stream of _“ why why why, ”_ a chant that becomes a hollow hum.

His breathing becomes less ragged, more even, until his diaphragm is hit by the last spasmodic sob before quieting down for good.

All in all, it takes an hour, maybe, for Michael to ride that swell of panic and loss, fear and confusion.

On the other side of it, there is his future, his room. There are questions, but there is also a soft cotton blanket against his face, a headache, the soft noise of his parent elsewhere in the house.

\---

When Michael leaves, Geoff begins to count down from 500.

Four hundred ninety nine. Four hundred ninety eight. Four hundred ninety seven. Geoff can hear Michael as he descends the creaky steps. He tries not to think about the fact that it’s the last time he’ll hear _this_ person on _those_ steps. He tries not to think about what Michael must be feeling.

Four hundred twenty six. Four hundred twenty five. Four hundred twenty four. Geoff thinks of snow. Of mountains. Geoff thinks of beaches, oceans. Geoff thinks of stars gone supernova, silent and far away.

Three hundred eighty seven. Three hundred eighty six. Three hundred eighty five. Each number he matches with a deep breath as his body begins to outpace his mind, adrenaline coursing hot. He forces the breaths over fifteen counts, then twenty, thirty, pushing out every bit of air before allowing in anything fresh.

Two hundred fifty six. Two hundred fifty five. Two hundred fifty four. Geoff tries to remember any poem he’s ever committed to memory. Nothing will come.

Two hundred thirty eight. Two hundred thirty seven. Two hundred thirty six. Geoff thinks of whiskey, gin, vodka, the release, to feel nothing--or alternately, to feel something. The rush of blood as alcohol replaces doubt, replaces truth until there is nothing but Geoff--Geoff alone, the center of his world, the only thing he needs.

One hundred eighty two. One hundred eighty one. One hundred eighty. He thinks of Alabama. He thinks of every place he’s ever been. He thinks of the streets in Europe--cobblestone worked flat under billions of feet, the pot hole in his neighborhood where he turned his ankle one summer, the torn up highways that ate up the tires of his mom’s ugly Buick.

One hundred and one. One hundred. Ninety-nine. Geoff thinks of his grandmother. He thinks of every person who has ever shown him kindness. It makes him want to cry and so he turns his thoughts to every hard face that has ever pushed itself into his, every fist that has taken a swing.

Seventy six. Seventy five. Seventy four. Fighting, Geoff thinks of fighting, of bar fights and learning to fight on mats that smelled and rubbed his skin raw, stitches, bruises, joints pulled rudely out of place, teeth knocked loose with no money to fix them, of wrestling with rules and of picking a fight with a stranger. He indulges in fantasy, in the thought of provoking a stranger who will beat him, in challenging someone with the power to make the pain in his body match his head.

Twenty two. Twenty one. Twenty. Almost there. He thinks only of the numbers.

Two. One. Zero.

Stillness erupts into action. Geoff almost runs to the door. He tucks a jacket under his arm, not bothering to put it on, clenches his keys until they bite at his palm.

His car is close to the building. He doesn’t drive far. There’s a dead-end street just a few blocks away.

Geoff parks. He cuts the engine. It’s snowing.

Geoff takes a breath and lets himself scream. He shatters his own hearing. He sits still and screams until his heart is pounding erratically, the tattooed skin on the backs of his hands taut and straining as he grips the wheel--centering himself as he screams--until his throat feels lacerated, until his head feels too tight.

He breathes. He screams again.

_**\----------------------------------------** _

_**Wednesday, Dec. 31** _

The menu Burnie has concocted for his party is excessive and complicated. It involves things like polenta and the word “crostini.”

Geoff had been conflicted when Burnie first started listing off the things he wanted Geoff to make. One the one hand, he’d been excited about trying a handful of new recipes. On the other, he felt instantly suspicious of Burnie’s sudden interest in food items like salted caramel brownies, fried olives, and lamb meatball sliders.

“You seriously want me to make all of this?” Geoff had said on the phone at first, looking down at the list he’d written as Burnie dictated the menu.

“Yeah dude, I thought you could cook,” Burnie had taunted.

After they’d hung up, though, the truth had dawned on Geoff: Burnie was trying to keep him occupied.

Geoff appreciates that. He really does.

It doesn’t matter that Burnie doesn’t know the whole story--that his friend can only chalk up Geoff’s morose attitude this week to the letter returned from his mother. It’s better that Burnie not know the entirety of the situation.

So as they cruise through the Safeway today, Geoff selecting the ingredients he’ll need to put together the bizarre menu, he can’t help but feel a jag of warmth for his friend. As they shop, it becomes apparent that Burnie doesn’t even know what some of the things on his menu _are_ and Geoff wonders what sort of website or tv show Burnie plagiarized the items from.

The distraction will be good. Geoff hasn’t cooked much in the past week, but being busy--doing work with his hands--has been a source of relief.

At the checkout line, the total is enormous and Burnie swipes a debit card before Geoff can say anything. Some weird instinct kicks in and Geoff tries to press a few large bills into Burnie’s hand there at the cash register. Burnie slings him a strange look.

“Let me help out with this,” Geoff says.

“Uh, you’re providing free labor all day,” Burnie says, cocking his head. He doesn’t reach to take Geoff’s money, instead turning to accept the receipt from the cashier and moving to push the grocery cart out of the store. Geoff follows him.

“I just, y’know,” Geoff says, reaching to put things into words. “I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“Throwing a kickass party? Yeah, I appreciate that too,” Burnie says.

\---

Gavin barrels out of his host family’s home to accost Michael before Michael is even out of his car all of the way. Michael prepares for impact and his friend catches him in a hug, clapping him on the back.

“Fuckin’ freezing here, come on then,” Gavin says, leading the way inside as if Michael had been planning on standing out in the cold and the snow.

“Where’s your people?” Michael says when they enter the empty house.

“Ah, they fucked off to see their own family this morning,” Gavin says. “I”m on my own until Friday.”

“Nice,” Michael says. He drops his backpack to the floor in the foyer. Gavin’s host family has one of the nicest houses in town. “Is Ray coming over?”

“Nah, he’s out of town too,” Gavin says.

“You talked to him?”

“Yeah--have you not?” Gavin fixes him with a strange look.

“I haven’t talked to him all break, actually,” Michael says. He couldn’t feel guiltier at the admission. “I’m sure he’s mad at me.”

“Ah, don’t say that,” Gavins say. “When’s Ray ever held a grudge? He sounded happy enough.”

“That’s good,” Michael says, even though he doesn’t believe Gavin’s reassurances that Ray isn’t mad.

“Can I give you your present now?” Gavin asks, almost bouncing. Michael frowns.

“I didn’t get _you_ anything, Gavin--”

“Eh, fuck it,” Gavin says, dismissing him with a hand and a smile. “That’s not the point.”

So Michael follows Gavin into the empty living room. His present is apparent immediately: an almost comically large bottle of scotch whisky, complete with bright red bow.

“I’m old enough to buy alcohol back home now,” Gavin says, triumphant. “Isn’t it grand? Don’t get mad at me about it--it was cheap as hell.”

Michael laughs as he hefts up the bottle. “Cutty Sark Blended Scotch Whisky.”

“Christ, did you pack an entire suitcase full of liquor to bring home?”

Gavin blushes.

“Might’ve done,” he says.

Michael cracks the screw top and takes a deep whiff, regretting it immediately.

“It smells like fucking paint thinner,” Michael says, laughing.

“Tastes of it, too,” Gavin says, nodding. “Drank plenty while I was home.”

“Could’ve used this last week,” Michael says, replacing the cap and setting it back down onto the coffee table. “Although, on second thought--probably best I didn’t have access to a shitload of alcohol.”

“What about your ID?” Gavin asks, falling back onto the plush couch and grabbing a remote control. He clicks on a large TV and begins flicking idly through channels, waiting for Michael’s answer.

“I don’t have it anymore,” Michael admits. He takes a seat on the couch.

“Yeah? You get in trouble while I was gone?” Gavin asks, turning to him.

Michael considers for a moment whether or not he wants to reveal the whole drama of the last week to Gavin. The last his friend had heard, Michael and Geoff were headed to the mountains for a private getaway, and although Michael will have to explain at some point what had happened, it will be the first time he’s said aloud to another soul that the whole thing is over.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks at last. _Fuck it._

Michael begins to recount the bizarre week to his friend. Suddenly the encounter has narrative, a structure--and although it does not make what transpired make any more sense, it at least makes it real. Michael can begin to wrap his arms around it.

_**\----------------------------------------** _

_**Friday, Dec. 26** _

In the end, it doesn’t feel at all like Geoff had expected.

The scream was good: cathartic for a moment.

The bender the week before had been... good.

Cathartic.

(For a moment.)

But when he arrives back in the apartment, there is no grand gesture left that Geoff has any interest in. He could drink alcohol but, he thinks, it would only make him dizzy.

He could scream more, but he’s so tired.

He could drive but there’s nothing he wants to see. There is no thought puzzle that needs to be parsed through--no mysteries to solve or philosophies to ponder.

He’s done it. He did the thing he set out to do.

And there’s nothing to do--now--but sit with it.

The catharsis was only temporary, he realizes now that he’s back in his apartment. He feels sad, but not the violent, acute type of sadness that could make one cry, that might make one want to punch a wall or break shit.

He feels like an immense, empty vessel.

It was impossible to predict, really. Geoff had expected to feel something intense and world-changing, something that would be bigger than him and feel profound, terrifying, maybe even a bit wonderful in how absolute and miserable it was. Some sort of absolution, maybe, or at least something certain and knowable.

But instead it’s just a vast, vast nothing.

There is nothing to look forward to, he thinks--and even _that_ thought doesn’t fill him with hopelessness. He just feels a bit lost. Just a bit off kilter.

 _Maybe I’m just worn out,_ he thinks to himself. He has, after all, spent the past week unpacking his own emotional baggage, binge drinking alone and with friends, trying to hang on and survive Christmas, deciding that he must remove himself from the human being he’s loved the most.

_Maybe when I wake up, I’ll feel different._

So he tries sleep--and sleep does come easily, mercifully, filling up his empty vessel for a time. He does not dream.

\---

But no. Saturday morning is not different.

Geoff wakes up rested, hydrated. Not hungover.

He’s almost angry about feeling so rested. If he’d woken feeling groggy or robbed of sleep by a night full of terrible dreams, at least he’d have an excuse to stay in bed and doze.

But the sunlight streaming in through the window is beautiful and the day is clear. His _mind_ is clear, he realizes.

And somehow he does not miss Michael.

He misses, instead, the entirety of his life before he’d made _the decision ._

He misses grocery shopping for dinners together. He misses grading Michael’s papers and trying not to be biased, trying not to gush over the incredible things that Michael had to say, the eloquent ways he phrased things without even knowing it.

He misses having the luxury to indulge himself in wondering what Michael is doing. He misses giving himself permission to think about the memories they’d made together. Easy conversation in the kitchen. Singing along together in the car.

And no, his world had not revolved around Michael--he had been very cautious to avoid that--but the young man had begun to color Geoff’s entire life. Even his memories of times before Michael.

Each dark corner had been lit up by his student--his best friend, he realizes.

And Geoff wishes he could feel an acute sadness--something to make his stomach hurt and make him rage or cry.

 _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ he wonders, gazing inward at the dull nothing.

Geoff forces himself up out of bed and begins to fill the hours with solitary activity.

\---  
It feels very bad, Geoff thinks.

To brace yourself for something.

And then.

There is…

Nothing.

\---

So on that first day, after what he begins to think of as _his decision_ , Geoff cleans every inch of the apartment five or six times (he loses count after four), right down to giving the baseboards a thorough wash, touching up the grout with an old toothbrush.

In between cleaning, he visits the laundry room downstairs, putting a load of lights into the washing machine and later migrating them, starting on a load of darks. He sets his dry cleaning aside in a corner of the closet, next to the leather jacket that Michael liked so much. He folds every garment neatly as it comes out of the dryer, hot and soft. Even folds his underwear.

After the apartment is so clean that the smell of bleach is overwhelming and his fingers have pruned, Geoff organizes every single book he owns, sorting them first by size and color before realizing how dumb it looks, pulling them all off the shelves, tossing them into a gigantic heap on his bed and re-sorting them alphabetically by author.

There are other things he could do. Planning out every single day of the semester, he thinks. Pulling out recipes and transcribing them, writing down the ones that were only committed to memory. Reading the eight novels, three books of poetry, and two collections of short stories that sit unread in a stack on his desk.

He will get to that, he thinks. There’s still time before the semester starts.

A bubble of panic swells in him at the thought. How much time, he wonders.

He pulls out his phone and flicks it open, navigating to the calendar. It’s 7:13 p.m. on Saturday, December 27, 2014. The spring semester begins at 7:45 a.m. on Wednesday, January 7, 2015.

He does the calculation: 10 days, 12 hours, and 32 minutes.

Ten and a half fucking days.

\---

Fifteen minutes later, Geoff has talked himself into heading out to Frank’s in Kettle Falls. There is no chance that he will survive ten days in his apartment. He’ll need to get out--need to talk to people, do things. Six hundred square feet cannot contain what he’s feeling for that long.

There’s a five minute drive between Geoff’s apartment and Highway 395--the straight shot two-laner that bisects Chewelah and runs from the Columbia River north of Kettle Falls down into Spokane.

Five minutes is all it takes, though, for one imaginary conversation to transpire in Geoff’s mind.

“Where’s your friend, sugar?” Heather the waitress asks Geoff, in his imagination.

The question occurs to him two blocks from 395 and rattles rudely into the darkest part of his brain, pulling things down off the shelves and shattering them until every fear, every hurt is wrecked in a heap in his head as he pulls up to the highway.

A right turn takes him to Kettle Falls and a quiet night and people who know him, even just vaguely.

A left turn takes him to Spokane--anonymous, dark, filled with people.

Geoff turns left.

\---

Geoff has only made the run to and from Spokane a handful of times--and most of them have involved Michael.

To find Michael in the bar alleyway. To bring Michael back home--to Geoff’s home, in the end. To a real, live date like normal adults have together.

The terrain is flat and Geoff drives the speed limit. He’s not sure where he’s headed, specifically. Not to The Rooster--not this time. Maybe another dark bar. Maybe a night with a stranger is what he needs. It would be a final proof, he thinks, that _his decision_ is firm. An irrevocable rift.

Once it’s bubbled into his psyche, though, the thought pesters him in an unpleasant way.

Could he bring himself to rut away with some stranger? Geoff imagines himself being guided by a gentle hand on his elbow into a strange house where he’d navigate furniture drunkenly in the dark on the way to a bedroom. He imagines a woman’s well-manicured nails, curling fists into his hair as he buries his face and drags moans out of her.

Geoff imagines swaying for balance and lingering off to the side in the too-bright lights of a Spokane hotel lobby, watching a man’s broad shoulders as he books a room for the night. Geoff imagines a rough hand on the back of his neck as a man forces him down hard onto cool hotel sheets.

All he feels at the images is a dull dread.

\---

Suburbs begin to bleed into the countryside as Geoff approaches Spokane.

He doesn’t mean to do it. But in the end he guides the hatchback into a bright parking lot with a glaring neon sign: Broudy’s Cut Rate Liquors.

He doesn’t want a bar, doesn’t want some fucking stranger interviewing him and assessing him, deciding whether he’s worth their time. He doesn’t want conversation with a bartender. He doesn’t want to be mocked by the sounds of friends laughing together. Doesn’t want to look at twinkling Christmas lights not yet taken down.

Geoff was wrong to drive to Spokane. He’ll just turn around.

And as soon as he’s told himself that he’ll simply head back, he’s out of the car. Geoff’s on autopilot. He walks into the store. He spends every bit of cash in his wallet on whiskey and beer. He’s back in the car on the road to Chewelah before he can hate himself even more.

\---

Drinking alone is his apartment is a bad idea--maybe worse than the initial impulse to drink in public.

The first day in the cabin haunts Geoff like a cruel dream. He'd lost himself in Michael. The two of them casual and comfortable and sharing the realest connection Geoff had ever been a part of. His heart open and bared to Michael there in the mountains.

He quickly gets too drunk to count backwards, unable to number the days it had been since he’d held Michael.

Michael had _seen_ Geoff--hadn’t he? And still wanted him. Even after Tuesday, the drunken encounter, as regrettable as it was--Michael had _seen that part of him,_ sick and worn and staggering--and Michael had still come back on Friday.

Michael never tried to fix Geoff, he realizes. Christ, the kid was too smart.

His decision has bored a ragged hole into Geoff--and as he tries to fill it with liquor, it seems to well up with doubt.

\---

On Sunday, after Geoff sobers up, he decides to put a hold on his drinking.

Not a stop. Not forever.

But at least until the semester is underway, he decides. He won’t enter another semester drunk and late and completely frayed.

He hadn’t liked the way it felt to simply arrive at the liquor store. Geoff hadn’t recognized that version of himself. It was frightening.

Stability first, Geoff decides. Then drinking.

\---

When Michael was fourteen, he’d had his appendix out.

It had been surprisingly undisruptive--the offending organ becoming inflamed in the middle of summer rather than during the school year. His dad had recognized his symptoms right away, the sharp pain like nothing Michael had felt before, and the ER docs had him back for surgery long before the damn thing could rupture and cause more trouble.

The whole thing was outpatient, the nurses discharging him into a beautiful summer night to two exhausted parents at 2 a.m.

Michael can still remember the car ride home feeling so bizarre--the idea that there had been some functioning piece of him 12 hours ago and now it was very simply gone. He’d slumped into the worn leather of the back seat and felt like he’d be up and back to work in a day or two.

In the end, it took a week before Michael could consider joining his brother and father back at work. They’d been doing a kitchen remodel across town, nothing even with that much heavy lifting--but when Michael attempted to get out of bed the day after the surgery, Michael’s body simply did not want to cooperate. He felt fine at rest, but under any strain or movement, he felt a hollow, exhausting ache.

Sitting now with his knowledge of the way things are, predictions of the way things will be, Michael is transported viscerally to that summer, that feeling of postoperative feebleness.

\---

Lying in bed on Saturday morning, Michael negotiates with himself.

He will let himself be feeble for what remains of the weekend. He will allow himself to be weak and upset and utterly disinterested in life. But on Monday morning, he will get up and he will remember what his life was before he had Geoff.

Because it had been a good life. And he’s smarter now.

And yes it will be different. But he’s done it for eighteen years so far. And he can find the pathway back--he knows it.

But move too fast, he thinks, and he’ll never get back to it. The same way he’d had to sit with his injury at fourteen, to be still while his body remembered how to seal up the parts of him that were different now--he would need to be feeble for a few days. He will allow himself to feel weak and exhausted, taken advantage of, angry. And on Monday, he will move and feel his muscles flex and Michael will, he promises himself, remind himself of who he is.

With the decision made, Michael flops to his side in bed and wonders how long his mother will allow him to remain there without question. He drifts back to sleep.

**_\----------------------------------------_ **

**_Wednesday, Dec. 31_ **

The kitchen in Burnie’s rental house is bigger than Geoff’s own in his apartment, and despite the fact that Burnie never seems to cook anything extravagant, the bachelor owns every pot, pan, and unlikely utensil that Geoff needs to prepare the complicated menu.

“I’m sure you can find your way around in here, but yell at me if you can’t find something you need,” Burnie says. He’s buzzing with nervous energy--Geoff can feel it almost palpably. The man loves entertaining--always had since they’d met--and the impending arrival of guests has obviously filled him up to the brim.

“If you want to get started in here, I’m going to get the living room set up for the band,” Burnie says, already halfway out of the kitchen.

“The band?” Geoff asks.

Burnie pauses at the doorway and shoots him a dubious look that says “ _yeah, the fuckin’ band, of course dude,_ ” before leavingGeoff to find his own way around the kitchen.

It’s easy to get along with Burnie like this. Easier still to be with someone who cares about him but doesn’t know what’s on his mind. Geoff had been close to spilling his guts to his friend 800 times all week, each time having to remind himself that there was no way to understand the situation at this point--from the outside looking in.

And worst of all, Burnie would surely try to talk him out of ever speaking to Michael again.

So as he begins to unwrap meat and wash vegetables and preheat the oven--to fall into the easy, familiar rhythm of cooking, reading recipes and combining what’s on the page with his own knowledge of flavors and textures in a way that’s part arithmetic and part art--as Geoff begins to cook, he thanks himself for never telling Burnie that his relationship with Michael had gone far beyond that night in the bar and unfurled itself into every part of Geoff.

\---

The mall is just as crowded as Michael had expected--plenty of tired-looking fathers trailing behind wives and daughters, children whining and shrill in the expansive building. The holidays are winding down but the Christmas decorations are still all over the two-story mall.

At least they’ve stopped playing holiday music, though, Michael realizes with relief.

Michael plays video games on his phone while he waits for Gavin to try on clothes. He’s transported back to the summers as freshmen and sophomores that the two of them had spent together--the three of them, really, Ray normally in tow--as Gavin led them around the mall. Ray was always largely disinterested in anything but the mall’s arcade and Michael never had a ton of money to spend. But you could always find other teenagers there to talk to, people from the city. It was a way to pass the time.

Even waiting on Gavin in dressing rooms was better than being in his house for another day, Michael realizes. It feels good to melt into the thrum and go anonymous in the flow of humanity and consumerism. It feels right to finally have a friend by his side--other than Geoff--who knows his entire story.

Gavin manages to spend most of his cash on clothes that, for all Michael can tell, look exactly like the clothes he already has. When Gavin is sufficiently satisfied with his purchases, they end up in the food court where Gavin volunteers to buy Michael a huge plate of Chinese food in exchange for the ride to the mall.

Hefting lo mein on bright plastic trays, the two seniors find a seat and Gavin flings glances around the food court--maybe looking for someone their own age to charm or strike up a conversation. Does he do it out of force of habit or is he actually looking for someone to talk to?

It’s all families, though, and so Michael watches his friend settle in and resign himself to conversation with Michael.

“What do you want to do for the rest of the day?” Michael asks. “We could catch a movie or something. Go to the arcade for old time’s sake.”

“Sure,” Gavin says. “But that still leaves tonight, doesn’t it?”

Michael considers that, twirling a plastic fork in the greasy noodles.

“There’s a ‘Cops’ marathon tonight,” Michael says. “And we have a gigantic bottle of scotch. We could get hammered and watch morons get arrested. Maybe Kerry wants to come over. We should take advantage of your empty house.”

Gavin isn’t even listening to him, Michael realizes. The other boy swallows a large bite of egg roll before giving Michael a handsome, white smile that always means he is about to drop a bomb into their conversation.

“You know Burns is having a shindig tonight,” Gavin says.

“Yeah?” Michael says, pretending that he doesn’t already know.

Geoff had mentioned it weeks ago when Michael had asked what he normally does for New Year’s Eve. Geoff had launched immediately into an explanation of Burnie’s parties which were, according to Geoff, epic and legendary when they’d been in college.

Michael had been making a conscious effort not to think about the party today. Every time it had occurred to him, his mind had threatened to venture to the image of Geoff, drunk and charming, pressing his lips up against some stranger’s at the stroke of midnight.

There are no words for the sheer horror that the thought fills Michael with--and while he’s tried to deal with emotions as they come to him, even Michael has his limits.

“What do you think would happen if we crashed it?” Gavin asks. The stupidity of the suggestion jars Michael back to himself.

“Oh Christ, Gavin--”

“No, I mean--well, it’ll only be teachers, won’t it?” Gavin says, leaning in conspiratorily. “His parties are supposed to be crazy. There’s no way he’d invite his bosses. And what are teachers going to do? It’s not like they could tell the dean or something--then Burnie would get in trouble for us showing up. Plus Ramsey’ll be there, I bet. I’d love to give him a piece of my mind.”

Michael knits his eyebrows together.

“Oh yeah, you chewing him out would really help me with resolution,” Michael says, punctuating the statement with an eye roll. “He’d probably drink himself to death afterwards.”

“Think he’d be upset that I know?”

“Nah, he knows you know,” Michael says. “But if you actually confronted him, it would fuck up his whole denial schtick. I’m sure it’ll be hard enough for him to look you in the eyes in class this semester as it is.”

“Right--I’m missing the part where I _shouldn’t_ make him feel more shit about himself for what he did, though,” Gavin says.

“Come on, Gav,” Michael says, frowning again. Gavin sighs.

“You’re too nice,” Gavin says, and then immediately catches himself. “Never thought I’d say that about _you ._ ”

The conversation hits a lull for a moment, both of them getting full, backing off from their lunches.

“How do you know so much about Burns’ party anyway?” Michael asks.

“Well that’s the thing about Burnie, Michael,” Gavin says. “He’ll tell you anything if you ask him right.”

Michael raises an eyebrow at his friend, who just gives him an innocent shrug.

“So we’re gonna go?” Gavin prods.

The roar of the mall noise bounces around behind them, a solid wall of sound, a crowd that feels unending. Michael gazes out over the heads of shoppers passing by.

Maybe this could be his chance for closure. A minute alone with Geoff and maybe Michael could get on with his fucking life.

It’s not ideal, but it might be his only shot before the semester starts, and Geoff has the chance to act like their entire relationship had been some fever dream.

“I don’t know, Gavin--this sounds even dumber than your normal ideas,” Michael says.

Gavin tilts his head up in victory, knowing from the statement that Michael will go along with the idea--it’s not a ‘no’ after all--and Michael curses himself for being so readable.

“When we get home you can start drinking that scotch,” Gavin says, “and you can keep drinking ‘till it sounds like a good idea.”.

“I’ll get alcohol poisoning first,” Michael says, sneering.

Michael cracks a fortune cookie and begins eating it before peering down at the small slip of paper.

“In great attempts it is glorious even to fail.”

**_\----------------------------------------_ **

**_Sunday, Dec. 28._ **

 

It doesn’t occur to Michael to be angry until he wakes up Sunday morning.

He wakes up with a throat still raw from crying the night before. Saturday had been tolerable--he went through the motions--but Saturday night had been rough. Lonely. And true to his bargain with himself, Michael let himself feel it.

Maybe he’d cried everything sad all out of himself, and anger was all that was left. Maybe it’s a physical thing, he thinks to himself--a survival response. But he feels furious. Angry to be alone. Madder and madder until his heart is racing and he’s jumping to conclusions, feeling used. Feeling like some sort of experiment.

Maybe Geoff hadn’t done it on purpose. One side of Michael wants to give the man he loved--loves, really--the benefit of the doubt.

But had Geoff ever meant any of the things he’d said about a future together--or had he just been too afraid of letting Michael down?

Had Geoff _ever_ seen Michael as anything but a kid?

And just as the crying built and built in an impossible feedback loop on Friday, Michael’s anger builds and builds.

And finally. It burns itself out.

He checks his phone. He gets a glass of water. For once, he doesn’t feel much of anything--and it’s a relief. Michael goes back to sleep.

_**\----------------------------------------** _

_**Monday, Dec. 29** _

Planning out this semester feels so different than planning the last.

Geoff hauls out his notes first, going week by week to review what they have covered so far. It’s odd to relive the semester this way. He can track the progression of his relationship with Michael just by remembering the readings, recalling the assignments. He can track, too, how Michael had flourished. Matured. Michael’s arguments becoming more cogent--both on the page and in his conversations with Geoff, in his approach to the two of them building something together.

Geoff can track, too, the movements of his own life independent of Michael. He can look at the readings and remember each time he fell apart, each time things came back together. Had Geoff made _any_ progress over the course of the semester or had he taken ten steps backwards?

No, sitting alone now he can easily say that he is very much the same desperate, self-loathing man he was back in August, reckless and ready to kneel in a bar bathroom for some stranger that’s caught his eye, ready to drown any hint of discomfort in the contents of a bottle.

It’s a sad realization. But not a surprising one.

Why, Geoff wonders, why could he not let love enrich him? Michael had flourished in it, grown.

Geoff had floundered.

Of all things, looking at the calendar makes him the saddest. It’s such a finite measure of time, set out that way. Today is the 29th. Last Monday was the 22nd.

A week ago.

It had just been a week ago. The two of them leaving bed on Monday, leaving the cabin. Without warning, Geoff is transported back to the moment before the letter had obliterated every ounce of confidence he had in himself, in his decisions.

The letter. Monday. Just a week. He had looked at Michael packing shirts into a duffle bag and realized how strong he was, how different from Geoff.

Michael had grown up so much in the months since they met. Nothing but positive changes. There was no denying it.

And a thought hits Geoff that fills him with something like panic.

Despite all of Geoff’s protests and railing and insisting, sweating and nightmares and struggle--despite it all, Michael had grown _because_ of Geoff. Not in spite of him.

\----

 

In the end, Michael feels stronger long before his Monday morning deadline for progress arrives. And yes, he’d spent most of the day in bed, sleeping as much as he could until his mom started to flutter around his bedroom door, knocking and obviously worried. He hadn’t gotten dressed all weekend. Fury had dissolved into exhaustion.

But by Sunday at dinner, Michael had been able to hold up his end of the conversation with his parents over a dry roast and wilted vegetables. He’d been able to answer questions about the coming semester without feigning a headache or ducking to the bathroom. He even fielded an inquiry about college without getting mad or sullen.

And when he’d stayed up until midnight on Sunday playing video games in his room, it had been because he was enjoying them--not because he was trying to avoid anything.

\---

What do people normally do after breakups, Michael wonders on Monday as he puts together his breakfast.

He's feeling ok. Both of his parents are out--his dad back to working and his mom at some sort of brunch function in the town center. The house is quiet and there is no one to tell him how to fill up his day.

Michael finds himself pretending that he is in college--though no specific one, at this point. He imagines that he has woken up alone in a dorm room and he’s fixing breakfast in some shared kitchen. Michael tries on that reality like a costume and wears it all morning, pretending like he has complete freedom.

And even then, his thoughts drift back to Geoff. Not unpleasantly, though.

On TV, people always went through photo albums or looked at framed pictures--either ripping up the pictures or crying softly down onto them.

Michael doesn't have any pictures with Geoff. He'd had the impulse to force Geoff into selfies with him several times, or to snap a candid of Geoff sleeping, cooking, singing too loud in his car as they drove together. But Michael's not a dumbass: he knows that it would be way too easy for someone to get ahold of something like that.

Hell, he thinks. He really doesn't have any physical proof at all of what had transpired over the past few months other than the gifts--and he'd left the pool cue and all that stuff at Geoff's for safekeeping. All he has is the poem and the Joyce book.

He'd bring the book back to Geoff once school started--not out of maliciousness. But the man deserved to keep something that's so important to him.

That left the poem.

On Sunday, marooned on that bright island of anger, Michael had almost sought it out to rip it up. The only thing stopping him had been that he couldn’t bear to look at it. But now, just a day later, he's glad that he didn't.

It would be a long time until Michael could read it again or would have the impulse to even look at it. But surely someday he'd be far enough removed from the hurt to appreciate it for what it is. Maybe someday he'd treasure it again as much as he had when he received it at the cabin.

\---

Michael sits down at the kitchen table with eggs, toast, coffee. He’s still wrapped in the fantasy of college, pausing to wonder how shared kitchens worked or if he’d even have one in his dorm. Would he go to a dining hall? Would he like the food there?

His eggs, he realizes as he begins to eat, are overcooked. He wishes he knew better how to cook for himself, and there had been a handful of times when Geoff was cooking for the two of them that he’d considered asking the man for help with basic skills.

Michael doesn’t like the fact that his thoughts drift so much to the other man. But he won’t fight it yet, either.

There had been so many moments, Michael realizes now, when he'd truly lost himself in Geoff. Looking back, he'd been eager for those moments--happy to feel almost as if they weren't two different people.

But it had only made their temporary separations harder, more unbearable.

Now that they're torn, the rift concrete and unmalleable, Michael can understand where his mistake was. You could never know another person to the extent that you simply absorb them--and there had been so much he didn't know about Geoff before losing himself in the other man.

At least he had learned that lesson--at least now he knew. Love couldn't be just to lose yourself.

A lesson he’ll apply to the next love, he thinks. The thought just makes him feel hollow, though.

\---

After breakfast, Michael finds himself writing because he has nothing better to do. Maybe it’s the logical next step to his collegiate roleplay that started in the kitchen--pretending like he’s got something important to work on for some big class held somewhere in an auditorium where he’d sit hip-to-hip with another anonymous freshman.

He starts to outline his old idea--the one about Reverend Hale as the tragicomic protagonist of The Crucible. It’s one of the ideas that he’d never actually discussed with Geoff--only alluded to that time with Hullum--and therefore it is a safe refuge.

He doesn’t know what to do with it, but putting the pen to paper fights the hollow ache in his stomach that keeps threatening to expand when his thoughts dwell on Geoff.

Michael realizes that he needs closure. But knowing Geoff, it will be a battle to get him alone. Just like the first day of class all over again.

\---

By lunchtime, Michael finds himself at the public library. He’s out of reading material at home.

Michael doesn’t mean to, but among the stacks, he finds himself gravitating towards the poetry section.

The library’s offerings are pathetic, Michael realizes. Geoff has more poetry in his own personal collection at home than the library does--not to mention the books he keeps in class for students to use.

Michael pulls an armful of the poetry books he finds down off the shelf and retires to a nearby table to browse what he’s picked up.  

He pages through them randomly, reading a passage here and shutting the book, selecting a new one and reading the first few pages. It is gratifying to read his own choices without the looming, invisible hand of Ramsey guiding him, Michael thinks.

It even feels a little bit like revenge.

A little bit like offering up to the universe a silent protest of “See? I never did need him for this.”

He stops on a book that isn’t a collection of poetry but rather a collection of letters.

 _“ Born in 1875, the great German lyric poet Rainer Maria Rilke published his first collection of poems in 1898, ”_ the book says on the jacket cover. _“ From 1903 to 1908 Rilke wrote a series of remarkable responses to a young, would-be poet on poetry and on surviving as a sensitive observer in a harsh world.”_

Michael would be hesitant to ever describe himself as a “sensitive observer in a harsh world,” but there’s an immediate appeal in the idea that there might be some sage advice to be had in the letters.

There has been, after all, no one to guide him through this.

There are only ten letters, and it doesn’t take long for Michael to read through them and find the pieces that resonate within him.

 _“Your solitude will be a hold and a home for you even amid unfamiliar conditions,”_ Rilke had written to the young poet in 1903, _“and from there you will find all your ways.”_

And then, the next year:

_“To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation... “_

Michael scans the section, obviously thinking of Geoff, hating himself for being utterly unable to consume this advice without the context of the other man, but too hungry to read the page to put it down.

_“But young people err so often and so grievously in this: that they (in whose nature it lies to have no patience) fling themselves at each other, when love takes possession of them, scatter themselves, just as they are, in all their untidiness, disorder, confusion… And then what?”_

The letter might as well be written just to him, Michael thinks. One hundred and ten years old, and the man might as well be writing about Michael himself. He didn’t need a poet to tell him that he’d approached love all wrong--but it still feels right, makes him feel suddenly more whole to have the confirmation.

_“Thus each loses himself for the sake of the other and loses the other and many others that wanted still to come… It is true that many young people who love wrongly, that is, simply with abandon and unsolitary (the average will of course always go on doing so) feel the oppressiveness of a failure…”_

And though Michael has been filtering each new sentence through the lens of his own experience, he reaches a piece in the passage that is so clearly _also Geoff_ that it stops Michael abruptly on the page:

_“How should they, who have already flung themselves together and no longer mark off and distinguish themselves from each other, who therefore no longer possess anything of their own selves, be able to find a way out of themselves, out of the depth of their already shattered solitude?”_

Michael had never been alone and Geoff had never given himself permission to leave his solitude. Michael had been too stubborn to try and change Geoff’s part of it, and it’s far too late to attempt to fix the other man now.

But there is ample time for Michael to learn to be alone--apart from love, apart from friends.

He reaches the end of the letter.

_“Do not believe that that great love once enjoined upon you, the boy, was lost; can you say whether great and good desires did not ripen in you at the time, and resolutions by which you are still living today? I believe that that love remains so strong and powerful in your memory because it was your first deep being-alone and the first inward work you did on your life.--All good wishes for you, dear Mr. Kappus!”_

_**\----------------------------------------** _

_**Tuesday, Dec. 30** _

Absentminded errors sneak up on Geoff slowly and then all at once.

A fridge door left open for two hours. His cell phone misplaced for the better part of a day. Frozen pizza forgotten in the oven until it’s a tough, dark disc.

But it comes to a head early on Tuesday when Geoff locks his keys in his car.

He’s halfway between Colville and Chewelah after a run to Wal-Mart when it registers that he’ll need gas if he’s going to make it back home. It’s many miles in either direction on 395 to get to fuckall type of civilization, and so pulls into the first filling station he comes across.

And of course the pump won’t accept his debit card. Of course he’s got to go inside and pay with cash.

And of course. _Of course_ _._ When he’s done with the entire runaround of going inside, paying for gas, filling the damned tank, and screwing the gas cap back on, it dawns on Geoff that the keys aren’t in his hand, aren’t in his pocket or in his jacket or on top of the car. They’re sitting plain as day on the passenger seat, right next to his cell phone.

He tries the door. Locked.

He is so, so angry at himself and it’s impossible to hide that type of violent disappointment, that visceral recognition of being a moron. When he marches back into the store, the kid behind the counter regards him warily, though, and Geoff tries to dial it back.  

He explains what he’s done, asks if there’s a pay phone. But no--of course there isn’t. And of course she can’t seem to locate a directory behind the counter anywhere either.

She’s apologetic about the fact that they don’t have a copy of the yellow pages laying around, but Geoff watches as her eyes dart again and again back to his knuckle tattoos, out the window, over her shoulder.

And it’s easy for him to forget how out of place he looks, sometimes. She must feel goddamned cornered, he realizes, some tattooed stranger gritting his teeth and stalking around her store and no one to call for backup. She’s probably never seen an actual criminal in her whole life, and he’d be an easy stand-in for the real thing. Christ it makes him feel bad.

Finally: a compromise. Geoff offers to wait outside with his car if she wouldn’t mind doing him a favor and looking up a locksmith on her _own_ phone and calling for him.

She seems relieved at the suggestion, and he tries to give her a reassuring smile as he walks back out into the cold.

It’s frigid and Geoff is so mad he can’t even look at his car. He stalks out towards the road, finding a patch of curb in the sunshine and zipping up his jacket before he hunches down to sit. He can feel the chill of the concrete against his ass, even through layers of fabric, almost immediately.

Christ, why couldn’t someone older and more secure have been on duty at the filling station? He should’ve bought a cup of coffee or something before resigning himself to the curb--but it’s too late now and he’s determined to hold up his side of the bargain.

Traffic is surprisingly steady on 395 and there is nothing for him to do while he waits other than grind the heels of his high-tops into the concrete and watch the cars go by.

He does this for ten minutes before he realizes that he’s checked the make and model of every white car that drives by to see if it’s Michael.

A few days ago, maybe, Geoff would be disgusted by the realization. Or felt pathetic about it. But the need to see Michael has grown slowly in his chest over the past 24 hours.

Geoff had been so selfishly worried about the guilt he might face, were he to fuck up Michael’s life--so completely obsessed--that he had never stopped to actually consider what Michael _deserved_. His decision had been unfair in the extreme.

A tow truck approaches and Geoff gets to his feet. But no, it passes. Geoff stomps and rubs his hands together. Sitting still was no good--too cold, even in the sun. He paces a bit, feeling suddenly self-conscious about looking like a maniac and wondering if the woman behind the counter had called for reinforcements as well as a locksmith.

Geoff wonders if there is a way to reverse his decision-- _his mistake_ , he realizes now.

Certainly there was no way to erase the damage he’d done. Treating Michael like a child, walling himself off.

It’s hard to reconsider. The passage of thought from “I love Michael” to “I’m horrible for Michael” had developed like a highway in his own thinking--first just a footpath, then paved, then expanded, then fortified--until it was difficult to ever consider either thought on its own. Even when the focus of Geoff’s mind had been loving Michael, the eventual destination had been that Geoff was terrible for him.

And it had, in the end, been a lie.

There is a new path. The narrowest deer trail. Barely perceptible.

The destination is a simple thought: _I could ask Michael to take me back._

Looking at it now seems surreal, impossible--but maybe Geoff could find a way there.

\---

In the end, the man who arrives a half hour later pops the lock with something that looks suspiciously like a straightened out coat hanger.

It costs Geoff a whopping $150, and when he scoffs, the man just rattles off the lengthy list of fees and extra fees for driving out to the middle of nowhere. Geoff doesn’t argue and hands the man his card. He just wants to go home.

**_\----------------------------------------_ **

**_Wednesday, Dec. 31_ **

Burnie had delivered a long and drunken lecture to Gus and Geoff one night after they had graduated, back when they were all three of them teaching at Coastal.

It was, he said, his _real_ thesis.

Burnie’s Theory of Parties.

Parties, Burnie insisted, were exactly like children. Gus had started to protest, but Burnie had just pushed a finger into his chest.

“You got goddamn kids?” Burnie had demanded to know over the background noise of the bar.

“No but, neither do--”

“Then sit the fuck down,” Burnie had said.

Nobody pointed out that Gus was already sitting. Burnie continued.

Parties were like children in many ways, Burnie had said. Sometimes you planned them, and sometimes they just happened. But planning never guaranteed that you’d end up with a good kid or a good party. And an unplanned one--well, those could be great too.

If you planned the party, it was like planning for your kid. You try to equip the party/child with all of the tools it would need to thrive--and there’s a point at which the success of your respective party or offspring no longer depended totally on you. And then, if you were lucky, the party--the kid--whatever they were talking about at this point, would have a life completely independent of you.

And all you could do was step back and watch the thing live its life and hope for the best.

As guests begin to arrive to the New Year’s Eve party, Geoff takes stock of the tools that Burnie has set out to help his party thrive this evening. Liquor is available in abundance--a case of champagne chilling in the garage, party bottles of bourbon, tequila, rum, vodka, mixers, and the keg Geoff had been in charge of securing that afternoon. This is Geoff’s small corner of the party--all set up behind a foldable bar that Burnie has produced seemingly out of thin air.

Then there is the live band, which is set up but isn’t yet playing.

Burnie has pulled other rabbits out of his hat, too.

Fireworks. A mega game of Jenga set up in his backyard. A contraption that Geoff was in charge of refilling that Burnie had dubbed “Shot Roulette.” And a large, official-looking game board that declared itself “Battle Shots.”

If nothing else, the party would certainly be well-lubricated.

\---

At Michael’s insistence that he won’t drink on an empty stomach, Gavin orders them a pizza to split. But even before it arrives, he’s pressing a glass of ice and soda into Michael’s hand and telling him to add some scotch and get started.

“Christ you’re an enabler,” Michael says, accepting the soft drink. “Actually no--you’re a forcer. Is this peer pressure? Is this what college is going to be like?”

Gavin laughs.

“I just don’t want you to puss out,” Gavin says.

“Damn dude, fuck you,” Michael says with a smile, splashing a generous amount of scotch into the soda. “I don’t need scotch to make shitty decisions.”

He can tell Gavin is right on the cusp of saying something in response before throttling back and sitting there silent. They hold steady eye contact for a moment, Gavin trying not to laugh at the joke clearly rattling around in his head.

“Out with it,” Michael says.

“No it’s terrible,” Gavin says. “It was unkind and I won’t be pressured into contributing to your misery.”

“Cheers to that,” Michael says, toasting his friend with the cocktail before taking his first sip.

“Suffice it to say that it had something to do with prince albert piercings and knuckle tattoos though,” Gavin says. Michael almost spits out the drink and swallows hard instead, coughing.

“Couldn’t hold it in, could you?” Michael says finally.

\---

The guests who stream in are in equal parts familiar faces from campus and friends of Burnie’s that Geoff doesn’t recognize.

For a while, Gus lingers at the bar with Geoff, demanding complicated cocktails and trying to explain who different guests are (if he knows). But eventually Burnie’s rounds of tending to new arrivals leads him back to his two friends.

“Hey, you: scram,” he says, elbowing Gus as he sidles up to the bar. “You’re gonna scare everyone away from coming up to the bar.”

“You mean attract them to the bar with my alluring good looks and charm, right?” Gus says, whipping a mane of imaginary hair as he shakes his head.

“This asshole’s not gonna make any new friends with you standing here all night, either,” Burnie says.

“Well, that’s a point,” Gus says. He turns to leave with Burnie.

“Wait--that’s bullshit--Gus was telling me who everyone is,” Geoff protests.

“Yeah well, I guess you’ll actually have to introduce yourself to people,” Burnie says. “Try to reach back to a time in your life when you weren’t such a social mess and channel that inner Geoff.”

“Doesn’t exist,” Geoff says quickly.

“Yeah man I think that’s asking too much,” Gus adds.

“Well. Use your imagination,” Burnie says. “If all else fails, just imagine you’re me and go from there.”

Gus frowns and shakes his head gravely.

“No,” Gus says. “No matter what you do, do _not_ imagine you are Burnie.”

But still, the two leave him.

\---

Gavin drinks a little after the pizza arrives, but before he’s able to get any sort of buzz going, Michael reminds him that he’ll be driving.

“There’s no amount of liquor to convince me to let your wacky ass drive drunk,” Michael says. And with a shrug, Gavin agrees.

Michael drinks very slowly but steadily until he can feel the buzz growing in the center of his chest.

It’s just a push, he tells himself. He just needs to get the momentum going. He already knows what he’ll say to Geoff.

\---

In the end, Burnie had been right. More people begin to approach the bar once Gus is gone and Geoff is on his own.

They’re not drunk enough to flirt with him yet, for the most part, but he can easily pick out the women who didn’t walk in paired up with someone--and at least a handful of the men--as they assess him.

When band kicks off at 10, though, it’s as if someone has finally lit the fuse. There’s not much time to think after that.

Burnie’s party baby becomes a full party toddler now, rollicking along--maybe a little rocky on its feet but definitely moving with the help of the all-female cover band. Geoff is one room over, in the transitional area between back yard, porch, and living room, and he is perfectly positioned to watch the scene develop in the back yard--with all of the drinking games--and inside with the band, the quickly-disappearing food.

More and more people are arriving, more people dancing, and a line forms for the bar that’s half new arrivals showing up for their first drink and half people looking for their second pour. Geoff pours as fast as he can as the line bleeds into the people watching the band. The contents of the keg become a distant memory.

During a cover of “Shimmy Shimmy Ya,” Gus joins Geoff behind the bar with an empty shot roulette set. He puts the game on the ground and huddles down, beginning to refill the glasses so that Geoff can keep serving.

“Burnie has way more friends than I thought he did,” Geoff says.

Gus gives him a doubtful look.

“I’m pretty fucking sure he doesn’t know a _lot_ of these people who just showed up,” Gus admits.

Geoff surveys the floor, looking for Burnie as he continues to pour and mix. Finally he spots the man, exiting his kitchen with an armful of red plastic cups. He distributes them as he makes his way through the crowd--and for a minute it looks like he’s passing out drinks--but then Geoff watches a stranger reach into the cup and produce… popcorn.

Burnie is passing out popcorn.

Geoff hadn’t even _made_ popcorn.

If the party had been a toddler at 10, when the band wraps at 11, it is absolutely an unruly teenager.

\---

Michael and Gavin make their way towards Burnie’s party sometime after 11. Gavin has insisted that they be there for the big countdown, if only because Burnie will be too distracted to kick them out.

Michael’s buzz has stayed calm and steady. The last thing he wants to do is to show up completely hammered and unable to tell Geoff all of the things he needs to say. It would be a nightmare to go and take that risk only to fail.

So he tries not to think about it too much as they roll down the windows and play too-loud music, Gavin driving them down back roads in the dark in Michael’s car. Michael doesn’t ask how Gavin knows where Burnie lives--maybe he doesn’t want to know. He simply trusts Gavin to take them.

At least the alcohol has done its trick. It has given him the courage to get in the car, for better or for worse.

\---

By 11:30 the party has grown up. The character of this living, breathing party could’ve gone either way--but it has now firmly tread into the territory of what Burnie would call _a bad party_.

Not bad because it’s boring. Not bad because it’s not fun.

Bad because people seem to be showing up from nowhere. Bad because the crowd streaming in now is not comprised of people that Burnie knows. Friends of friends of friends--people who have driven an hour from neighboring middle-of-nowhere towns--are now joining the party uninvited--and Geoff is curious about what the scene on the street must look like by now.

The band has already packed their stuff back into the van and hit the bar for a drink, mingling into the crowd as canned music picks up where the live musicians left off. The music is quieter but the noise of the party guests is almost to a roar--punctuated by swells of laughter and shouts as people play their drinking games outside.

Burnie looks increasingly frantic each time Geoff spots him, and whatever drunk he had on earlier has dissolved into damage control. The man circulates constantly--probably trying to weed out college students, Geoff realizes. Some of the faces do look very young.

\---

“Christ alive, Michael,” Gavin says as they pull up to Burnie’s block. It looks like a scene from a zombie movie--cars abandoned on the road in all sorts of bizarre configurations. The party has spilled out into the front lawn and the street in front of the yard as well--and Michael can only imagine what the inside must look like.

“Jesus Gavin,” Michael says. “You sure you want to do this?”

“You kidding me?” Gavin says, putting the car into park and looking over at Michael, “This is incredible,” he says. “I can’t believe we would’ve missed this!”

Michael can’t even begin to match Gavin’s delight. He’s not sure he’ll even be able to find Geoff in this mess--and if he can, it’s doubtful that he’ll be able to find a place quiet to talk.

But still, as Gavin hurls himself out into the night like a fucking bottle rocket, Michael has no choice but to follow.

\---

Finally there comes a moment when it seems that everyone has a drink in their hand and the line dies off. Champagne is being passed around as midnight nears, and there’s no longer the strong push to have a fresh cup of liquor. People are preoccupied with pairing off, with beginning the countdown.

And in the lull, Gus has mercifully joined Geoff at the bar again.

\---

For one pulse-pounding moment, Michael loses sight of Gavin in the crowd.

He’s swallowed up, lost in a group of people who couldn’t be much older than he and Gavin, and without thinking, Michael actually _calls out_ for his friend like a lost little kid. He gets hold of himself after a moment, though, reminding himself that he needs to be sober, that he has important work to do if he can just find Geoff.

Instead, Burnie finds _him_.

\---

“Shit, is that--what, Jones and Free?”

Geoff hears Gus say it before he sees the two students.

Geoff is mid-pour, making a dirty martini for his friend--but Geoff’s legs are moving before he’s even realized it, striding towards the direction that Gus had been looking when he’d said it out loud. He abandons the bar without a thought.

Burnie is blocking his view of the two seniors.

“Christ, get him outside before he pukes,” Burnie is saying to someone.

Gavin’s got an arm slung across Michael’s shoulders. Michael has not seen Geoff yet.

Burnie turns and almost runs into Geoff bodily.

“What’s going on?” Geoff asks, even though it’s apparent: Michael and Gavin have crashed Burnie’s party.

“You assholes are lucky nobody from administration is here,” Burnie says, ignoring Geoff’s question, treating him like backup and straining to be heard above the din. “Do you even think before you decide to pull stupid stunts like these, Gavin?”

Gavin starts to protest. Michael has seen Geoff.

There is a dizzying moment of tunnel vision for Geoff, the party pulsing around him as this opportunity opens up. What did Michael want?

Someone tries to get by and jostles Geoff hard and the moment passes and Burnie is angry and loud in the boy’s face.

“Tell me you didn’t drink anything here,” Burnie demands.

“Burnie, I’ve been behind the bar all night,” Geoff says, finally stepping in. “Unless somebody gave it to them, they haven’t had anything here.”

Burnie just shakes his head.

“Unbelievable. Geoff, help this one get some fresh air, will ya?” Burnie asks. Geoff watches as his friend puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder, pushing him towards Geoff and away from Gavin. “Jones, go sober up,” he says to Michael with the air of a disappointed father.

“What about me?” Gavin asks.

“You and I are going to discuss how this absolutely did _not_ happen tonight,” Burnie says.

The scene in the back yard is too crowded and noisy and everywhere Geoff looks there are people. Faculty. The appearance of two students has not escaped the other teachers at the party.

Burnie has a small balcony off of his bedroom. Geoff knows they’ll have privacy there.

“Come with me,” Geoff says.

\---

The scene is so surreal that Michael has a difficult time understanding his relation to it.

He is there, certainly. He can hear the music, feel the eyes on him. He can see Geoff--Geoff looking aware and rested and no, not the greatest but also not strung out and wild-eyed as he got sometimes.

Michael wills his feet to move and follow Geoff up the carpeted stairs, past throngs of strangers. Maneuvering, trying not to run into anyone. He forces himself to do it--and the difficulty isn’t, Michael realizes, because he’s drunk but rather because the whole thing is so unexpected.

The scale of the party. The fact that he hadn’t needed to find Geoff--the man had found _him._ That he hadn’t needed to beg for privacy, hadn’t needed all of the energy he’d built up to convince the man to talk to him.

Everything he’d prepared--it’s unnecessary as they reach the top of the stairs and the crowd begins to thin out.

Wordless, Michael follows Geoff through what he assumes must be Burnie’s bedroom, through a small door and out, into the frigid air.

The transition is abrupt. It’s much quieter on this side of the house. Cold and clear. Geoff shuts the door behind them and the noise of the party quiets even more.  

“What the hell are you thinking coming here?” Geoff asks--his voice not as unkind as his words. He can actually _hear_ the other man. Michael is dumbstruck for a moment. Geoff looks kind. Sad.

“I’m sorry if this fucks you over,” Michael says, finding his voice. “I had to say my piece.”

There’s plenty of room for personal space on the deck and Michael stands a few feet off from him, bracing himself against the railing.

“How drunk are you?” Geoff asks.

“I’m not that drunk,” Michael says. “I think Burns was just panicked we showed up. I’m not that drunk.”

“And Gavin--he drove you here?”

“He’s sober,” Michael says. “I wouldn’t have let him get behind the wheel otherwise.”

“Thank Christ,” Geoff says.

\---

Michael is more sober than he appeared to be at first. His voice doesn’t have the thick quality of someone trying to work their way through the haze of liquor.

The man peers at Geoff, both of their eyes adjusting to the darkness.

“You haven’t been drinking,” Michael says after a minute.

“No,” Geoff says. “Not tonight.”

The party continues in the background, much quieter now. Geoff feels as if he can actually breathe and as much as he needs to speak to Michael, as much as he’s not about to squander this opportunity, it takes him a moment to let his brain catch up to the moment.

“It’s good to see you,” Michael says. “Even though.”

“Even though,” Geoff echoes back, nodding.

Michael laughs to himself, shaking his head.

“I had a lot to say to you,” Michael says. “Feels like it doesn’t matter, now that I’m here.”

“Why’s that?” Geoff asks.

“I thought you were going to yell at me for coming,” Michael suggests. “Refuse to talk to me.”

“Michael,” Geoff says, gently.

There aren’t any words.

The boy’s name on Geoff’s tongue is a plea.

“I understand, Geoff--last week. I get it,” Michael says. His words falter, as if he’s trying to remember some half-memorized verse he was going to recite out here in the cold. “I picked up this book--it was letters, from Rilke.”

He says it with a long “e,” like “rill-key.”

“Ril- _kuh_ _,_ ” Geoff gently corrects.

“Rilke,” Michael repeats matching Geoff’s pronunciation. “I was sure I was fucking that up. Rilke. He writes about loving wrongly, how you lose yourself and… forget how to be alone.”

Michael pauses, as if expecting Geoff to interrupt. Geoff just nods, waits for Michael to continue. _L etters to a Young Poet_. He’s familiar with it.

“I never gave you a chance to see me be alone, Geoff,” Michael says. “I wanted you and it didn’t matter what I had to give up to get you.”

Michael looks out into the dark.

“I can understand why that scared you,” Michael says. “Why it made me seem young.”

“You _are_ young, Michael,” Geoff says.

“And so are you,” Michael says, cutting his eyes at Geoff. “Thirty isn’t old, Geoff. But it doesn’t matter either way--I get it. And you had more to lose than I did.”

The air is beyond cold, but it’s a still night. The lights past Burnie’s back yard look like satellites. Geoff just lets him talk.

“You taught me so much,” Michael says, his voice going strange.

\---

Michael’s throat starts to constrict with emotion. He can’t look at Geoff until it passes, and when he does, the man is still just looking at him.

It’s a moment before he continues.

“In the end, I’m 18 years old. There’s nothing I can do to change that for you. And if everything I did before last week didn’t prove what I was worth, there’s nothing I’ll ever say to you that does,” he says. Geoff’s shoulders seem to sag under the weight of Michael’s words.

“The way you’ve ended this--just cut me off--there’s a part of me that wants to say I was just some big experiment for you,” Michael says.

He’s not trying to hurt Geoff on purpose. These things have to be said if Michael can live with himself, if he’s going to stride into that classroom every day next semester.   

“If you’ve talked yourself into thinking that this is the right thing for me, I want you to know that you’re naive and you’re wrong,” Michael says. “It still hurts, Geoff--” and his voice goes high and tight and curls off away from him.

Michael recovers himself, his breathing measured.

“I wanted you to know that I’ll be ok--I’m ok without you. I don’t need you, Geoff.”

“I know, Michael,” Geoff says quickly, and Michael can tell he wants to say more now, he’s ready to hear the end of it--but Michael continues on because this is what he needed to say the most, his words running over Geoff’s.

“But I’m glad--I don’t--I’ll never regret you.”

\---

Geoff weighs the statement, as if he could determine its veracity by a measure of density. Michael is done for the moment. This is the truth he came here to deliver. Geoff hears every word. He knew it all already.

In the silence between them an enormous tide moves. Vast and unstoppable.

Geoff turns away from the boy, heart beating hard.

Michael has grown even in their time apart. Without Geoff. In spite of Geoff’s selfishness.

He is remarkable in every way. Is there any landscape, Geoff wonders, in which Michael Jones does not thrive? Any scenario?

He will never ever _deserve_ Michael.

Geoff is willing to ask for him anyway.

People are setting off fireworks at the edge of the forest and one detonates with a loud pop that echoes.

There is so much Geoff thought he knew before he met Michael, and so much of it is wrong. It’s time to let go of his life before Michael.

Silently, Geoff does so.

And when that time is gone from his life, he turns back to the other man and it feels as if he’s been gone for a long duration.

It feels as if his chest has cracked open, as if he’s been torn and every piece of him is exposed, seared by the cold air.

The question he is about to ask, Geoff thinks, will define the remainder of his life. The misery and pleasure and ugliness and charm will hinge on it.

“Would you take me back?” Geoff asks, firm, loud.

Michael looks at him the way he did in the Spokane alley, his first brush with mortality: raw, animal, frightened.

“Geoff,” he says. “Why?”

“Everything you said,” Geoff says. “You’re right.”

Every word is one thousand pounds freed from Geoff’s chest.

“I was generous to you in all the wrong ways. The cabin, the presents.”

Michael’s eyes dart--searching, frantic, as if there’s an answer he could discover if he only knew how to look into Geoff’s face hard enough. A thick layer of tears makes Michael’s eyes look brighter, as if sunlit even here in the dark.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” Michael says.

“I gave you everything but me,” Geoff replies.

One tear breaks loose and falls fast down Michael’s cheek--and Geoff knows that the path it leaves must be cold to the point of burning, and Geoff wants to gather him up and close Michael’s eyes to the cold. But he won’t let a physical touch guide Michael in this decision.

Michael says nothing. Geoff continues.

“When we got home, Michael--from the cabin,” he begins. “I--let me back up. I wrote to my mom after I told you about her.”

\---

Michael’s heart jackrabbits. The explanation he’d been expected to drag out of Geoff--the thing he knows the other man has been waiting for Michael to beg him to explain. Here it is, finally--the big blank pieces of the previous week falling into place.

“And she wrote you back,” Michael says.

Geoff shakes his head, swallows hard.

“No,” he says. “She returned the letter. Unopened. It was there waiting for me Monday night.”

“That’s what fucked you up,” Michael says.

Geoff tries to breathe.

“I realize it’s not an excuse,” Geoff says.

“No,” Michael agrees. “It’s not. But at least it explains the state I found you in on Tuesday.”

The ten minutes that had thrown everything Michael knew on its ear. Geoff strange and peering out from a crack in the doorway. The person who Michael had come to regard as the other half of his heart asking for space, demanding a rift.

It makes sense why Geoff didn’t want to see him--not at that moment. It doesn’t absolve Geoff, but.

_But._

He’s not forgiven, Michael reminds himself. He wishes he could stop crying, wishes he could stop understanding this person. Michael has made up his mind--he didn’t come here to mend things. He came here to move on.

“Michael, I thought it changed everything--I thought I was doing the right thing for you--”

“You weren’t,” Michael says, he can’t hold back the gut reaction. The two words land like blows.

\---

“I know,” Geoff says.

There is no way to ask for forgiveness for how selfishly, how abruptly he’d turned.

“I’ve never had something as good as you in my life,” Geoff says. “I’m trying to learn.”

Another tear wells. Breaks.

“Please take me back,” Geoff says. His voice is tightly controlled. He hasn’t rehearsed the words. They don’t feel natural on his tongue. “I want you to have all of me this time--if you want it.”

“I trusted you.”

The statement is a pin, trapping Geoff, exposing him. There is no excuse.

“I know,” Geoff says, finally. “I hurt you. I’m not asking you to trust me right now. I just want you to give me time to prove that I can treat you like an equal. And maybe then you can trust me again. But if you can’t take a chance like that, I understand.”

He can’t read what’s happening in Michael’s eyes. There are no new tears, but the two tracks shine in the reflected light of the stars, of the moon, of the glow from the house. They seem to glimmer and flicker under Michael’s eyes.

“You don’t have to answer now. You can go home tonight,” Geoff says, “and I’ll let you dictate how this goes. You want me to be your teacher--and just that--I’ll do that for you.”

Michael still doesn’t react. His gaze is steady and alive but inscrutable.

\---

This isn’t it, this isn’t why they’re here on the roof, why Michael is transgressing here in this forbidden world in the middle of the night. How do you say no to the other half of your goddamn heart, Michael wonders. How can you get a guarantee that you won’t hurt this bad again, other than walking away?

“I’m not some living lesson about love, Geoff--you can’t pick me up when you’re interested and put me down when you’re scared--”

“You’re right,” Geoff says.

Michael takes a step forward, raises his hands as if he’s going to fight the other man--or maybe as if his hands could block Geoff begging, Geoff admitting his faults--”I’m not a goddamn chapter for you--something you use--”

“I know that, Michael,” Geoff says. “I am wrong for you in every way I can think of--but none of that changes the fact that I love you.”

Finally he has said it.

\---

Michael takes another step, looking wild. He’s right in Geoff’s face and it’s all the older man can do not to bring a hand to Michael’s chin.

“Saying it doesn’t change a goddamn thing, Geoff--”

“I know that--but I do. I do love you, Michael.”

“You think I didn’t fucking know that by now, Geoff?” Michael asks. “ _I know_. I love you too--you know I do. Loving each other isn’t enough.”

Michael’s voice is loud and it falters when he says it. It’s unclear whether he’s said this for Geoff or to remind himself, but after the word “enough,” the fight in Michael dissolves as quickly as it sprang up. Michael goes boneless and weary and he threads his arms into Geoff’s jacket, pressing warm, familiar weight up against him. Geoff buries his face into the boy’s hair.

\---

There is no guarantee, Michael realizes. There is no way forward but to risk everything again. To share yourself every day--there will never be a guarantee. Not with Geoff, not with anyone. He will be armed for the rest of his life with the knowledge of how bad and broken he can become. Every conversation will be a risk. He can feel Geoff’s breath against his scalp.

\---

Three weeks ago, the contact would have diffused any anxiety in Geoff’s chest--but not tonight. Michael is not a cure-all or a treatment. Michael’s love will never be a panacea. That was a mistake and now that Geoff sees it, Michael will never be that again. That’s never what love was supposed to be in the first place, Geoff realizes.

“I’ve been in love with you since the first time I saw your heart spilled across a piece of notebook paper,” Geoff says quietly. “You’re right. You’re not a lesson. I’m sorry, Michael. I’m sorry. I love you. I don’t deserve you but I want you to let me earn you.”

It is so odd to hold Michael now, and there is nothing erotic in the touch. It is the sight of a much-loved city skyline after a long absence. It is coming back to a familiar bed after a long time traveling. Whatever else Michael may have ever been to Geoff, he realizes, Geoff is being allowed now to hold his best friend here in the dark.

Geoff is sobbing.

Geoff realizes it with a jolt. Geoff has skipped any sort of solemn tears that would’ve allowed him to keep his dignity--traveled straight to muted, wracking sobs. And when Michael feels it after a moment, he only squeezes Geoff tighter.

It’s a physical release beyond anything Geoff has felt. He is safe here, on the roof with Michael, whether the boy wants him back or not, he realizes. Because here is the human who has loved him the best, the only life who has cared enough to invest in him so wholly--and whether or not there is a future there, Geoff knows it doesn’t matter because he will always have this moment, this assurance that he is loved, that he is worthy, that he is not alone.

He wants Michael but he is not desperate, not pathetic for him. Geoff knows that he, too, could survive.

\---

Inside, the party crescendos. A countdown. Somewhere farther away there are fireworks.

In the human measure of things--the frivolous three, two, one--the clock strikes and a new year begins.

The earth continues to spin, oblivious to the innumerable fragile lives’ trajectories working and reworking themselves somewhere on it. The mountains stand in darkness.

It is the next year and nothing has changed.

\---

Michael has faced the abyss of knowing love and losing it and he has survived. He is stronger now, as he holds Geoff and lets himself be held, here cloaked in the surreal spread of Geoff’s peers--here Michael stands, stronger and smarter and more sure than ever. Would it be wiser or safer to say no out of some stubbornness, even in the face of new evidence?

_“For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.“_

Love will be work. A risk. Every second of every day will be a risk on out into infinity, into nothingness--to simply exist will be a risk.

What is risk without adventure. A poem exists to be read. There is no wrong answer--there are no mistakes. He could leave tonight or he could make this unlikely choice. And either way it will be _his choice_.

What is a mountain to Michael without a soul beside him to climb it?

What better soul than Geoff’s?

\---

Geoff’s sobbing winds down, losing inertia. Geoff’s diaphragm no longer buckles in spasms. He heaves a last shuddering sigh that breaks into a hiccup.

“Please don’t snot into my hair,” Michael says. “I really might puke.”

It is a crude turn and there is relief in the moment. They sag into each other. Geoff laughs--the laugh bubbling out of him from somewhere deep and unexpected as he clutches Michael, who begins his own twin laugh with its own distinct timbre. Geoff almost knows what the moment means but is too afraid to take the chance that he is wrong.

Geoff’s heart beats hard. His lungs threaten to buckle again. Michael is everything, the whole world. Geoff will learn--if he gets his chance, he will let Michael teach him.

“Don’t go away from me again, Geoff,” Michael says into his chest, finally.

“Never. Never,” Geoff says.

“You’ll promise me?”

“For as long as you want me,” Geoff says. “I’m here. I’ll love you right. I’m yours.”

**\----------------------------------------**

 

**THE END**

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. Thank you. One thousand thank yous. You all mean the world to me.


	35. Epilogue

SPRING

Spring in Eastern Washington comes at the expense of a messy thaw.

The melt begins like a fever breaking in reverse. It feels like relief, like the first step in a long line of odious steps. It is halfway between beautiful and repugnant--because while it means the days of ice and sleet are coming to the end, it also means that there will be no more impossibly still moments with virgin snow drifts and the world pillowed in dry powder that absorbs the sound of the earth until the atmosphere is quieter than quiet.

And even after the long frozen season of wind-chapped cheeks and hands cracking until they bleed, of hauling shovels full of snow until clothes are drenched in sweat and threatening pneumonia, of chipping ice off of windshields while joints ache in the dry air--even after it all, there is something pure and acute about winter, and everyone in Chewelah feels it warring in them: the relief of the thaw, the ache at the knowledge that the winter is over.

\---

In March, they read T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland.”

“April is the cruellest month, breeding  
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing  
Memory and desire, stirring  
Dull roots with spring rain.  
Winter kept us warm, covering  
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding  
A little life with its dried tubers...”

Geoff has read it before, of course. You don’t escape a lit program without reading the goddamn hulking piece of work. He’s analyzed the first stanza, too, written about it.

But after he goes through that first Chewelah thaw, he knows the poem is living in his bones in a way that it never did before, ossified and as unchangeable as the tattoos across his knuckles: the crown, the moon, the ship, the arrow.

Some poems become as much a part of him as the people around him, as the events that shaped him. That ugly beginning of spring in Chewelah is part of who he becomes, scrubbed raw of doubt and fear. Not every day of the spring semester is a good one, but the strong days begin to outnumber the weak and Geoff holds something in his chest that feels like summer sunshine.

\---

There have never been so many lasts as there are that season for Michael.

Last time sitting in the cantina with Ray, Kerry, and Gavin. Last exam in Marine Biology. Last time arriving late to European History. Last video presentation in Burns’ class.

It would’ve been easy to get melancholy about it, except he’s surrounded by the best people in the world here in Chewelah. Last time they’d all be together, he realizes sometimes with an abrupt drop. But for every sad realization, there is Gavin making a joke, Kerry picking them up for shenanigans in the middle of the night, Ray texting him and insisting he get online for a pickup game of this or that.

The finality of their senior year is already starting to color all of their memories as they unconsciously contribute to their shared narrative. The small class of seniors had spent so much of their lives together and soon they would be cracking apart, flung off to different corners of the world--and even the ones who aren’t friends find it easy to forgive and forget past hurts and simply live in the golden moments of their lasts together.

\---

SUMMER

Michael recalls the first time he’d made his way to Index with something not quite like nostalgia--but not quite happiness, either.

His memory of Geoff that morning as Michael had pulled into the apartment parking lot before sunrise is now tinted, colored by something else. Looking at the memory is like looking through the lenses of smeared glasses. Michael wishes he could rub whatever it is off and just be happy to recall the time, but the longer he sits with the memory, the more he swells up with it--Geoff cheerful and too energetic, their breaths visible in the frigid air, the way Geoff had grabbed him by the hip out there in the open, when it was still too early for prying eyes, and kissed him in the parking lot--and as Michael slams the trunk of his little sedan this morning he resolves not to spend the next three days in the past.

Just because he’s going back to the cabin for a second time doesn’t mean he’s got to revisit the person he was six months ago.

He’s gotten a later start than he wanted to--mostly because of his parents. They got up to see him off, his mom tearful and his dad making the kind of choked-off, brusque statements that always indicate the man is having a hard time not crying.

“It’s supposed to be easier sending the _second_ kid off to college,” Michael had reminded them.

“But we’ll really have an empty nest now,” his mom had protested, her voice wavering a little. “It’s going to be hard.”

“Bullshit, ma,” he’d said. “You two are gonna go wild now that there’s nobody here to supervise you.” She’d smiled at that.

“Call us when you get to Index,” his dad had said. “You sure you know how to get to this cabin?”

“Yeah, Ray gave me good directions,” Michael had lied.

“Have fun and don’t fall off any mountains,” his dad said.

And with that, they’d returned inside to let Michael finish off the last of his packing. He’d insisted that they not stand on the front porch and wave goodbye. Besides: he’d probably be back to Chewelah before the semester started. They’d have another chance to say goodbye before he was really a college student.

\---

Once Michael is on the road, his memories ease off and leave him alone. He’s never driven himself through the mountains before and as soon as he gets his first glimpse of the Cascades, he’s focused on the road.

The sheets of rock rise up on the horizon. They’re so green that they’re almost blue. Chewelah, the flat lands of Eastern Washington, the last year of high school is at his back. Michael is scared and excited all at once, his chest squeezing strangely, and he’s almost fighting to breathe, feeling like he does after jumping head-first into too-cold water.

This is it.   

\---

The cabin looks different in summertime, when he arrives. It’s as if the forest surrounding the picture-perfect structure has swollen and burst, erupting in a thousand shades of green, a hundred thousand branches stretching out, warring to reach the sunshine.

Michael retrieves his duffel bag from a backseat piled high with boxes and clothes and everything else he would need for college. He fumbles in his wallet to find the key code the rental agent had provided. Armed with both, Michael approaches the cabin and enters.

Trying to stop the memories as he opens the door now is like trying to stop an open dam with a wine cork. He’s not strong enough to do it. Every minute of every day he’d first spent here with Geoff is suspended in the air like a dust mote--innumerable, golden when it catches the sun.

\---

WINTER

The first day of the year--the first day after that night at Burnie’s--had presented a hard and stark morning. Both men were nursing wounds they didn’t yet fully understand.

Michael hadn’t been ready to leave the small apartment when it was time for him to go. Neither of them had been ready for him to leave. The anxiety that one of them would change their minds was too real, and the idea that they could make things work seemed too shaky. They’d reached an impasse, both of them too weak to do the right thing.

“We have to be realistic, Michael,” Geoff had said, knowing neither of them wanted to be. “You can’t spend every weekend with me. We’re in the home stretch.”

“This is the last time we’re even going to live in the same city for all you know,” Michael had protested. “It feels fucked up to say I’m not going to spend all the time I can with you.”

Geoff had chewed his lip.

“For every day we spend apart where we could be together, I’ll pay you back with two this summer,” Geoff had said.

“How?”

“You stay home on a Saturday night, then you’ll get two nights with me in a few months. Like time in the bank.”

“Right, I fuckin’ understand how math works, thanks,” Michael had said. “How are you going to spend a whole summer with me?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll both have to go somewhere. And wherever you go, I go.”

“You promise?”

“Doesn’t seem like my word should count for a lot right now,” Geoff had said. And he was right. But he did promise, and Michael had taken him for his word. Michael had trusted Geoff to work out the details.  

\---

SPRING

The answer had come when Michael had gotten a scholarship to attend Washington Coastal. Gavin had bounded into Geoff’s English classroom that March morning, crowing about Michael’s good news. He and Michael would both be going to WCU together and wasn’t it grand that he _and_ Michael _and_ Lindsay would still get to be friends in college?

It stung Geoff a little, that Michael had chosen a school without talking to him. Without telling him first. But the petty moment passed quickly. And it helped that ultimately Michael had chosen the school Geoff wanted for him the most.

Michael would be going to Geoff’s alma mater. He’d be in Bellingham, within a day’s drive, in a city Geoff knew intimately, at a school staffed by faculty he trusted. It was easy to put on a happy face.

“Gavin told me the good news,” Geoff said by way of a greeting when Michael arrived a few minutes later.

“What’s that Mr. Ramsey?” Michael had asked, working diligently as usual to keep his voice neutral.

“About your scholarship, WCU,” Geoff said, wanting to hug him or put a hand on his shoulder or goddamn something. Instead he stood, beaming, watching Michael’s face.

“Damn it Gavin,” Michael said. “You can’t even let me tell people myself?” Gavin had just chuckled fondly.

“I’m excited my boy’s going to school with me,” Gavin said with a shrug.

“He told you about the scholarship, too?”

“Yeah,” Geoff said. “Not what it was for though.”

“It’s a, uh,” Michael had said, going red. “A talent grant. For the English program.”

“Holy shit, Michael,” Geoff said, loud enough for Michael’s classmates to overhear. A few snickered--the novelty of hearing their teacher swear never seemed to wear off. “I didn’t even know you applied!”

“Yeah, I mean, all they wanted was a letter of recommendation from my English teacher and a writing sample.” Michael’s blush was deepening.

“But I didn’t--” Geoff started. “You asked _Ryan_?”

Michael shot him a cautionary look.

“I wanted an _objective_ letter,” Michael said, dropping his voice. “I thought Mr. Haywood might be a better option.” Hm. They’d have to talk about that later, Geoff thought.

“Well what sample did you send?”

“You haven’t read it, actually,” Michael said. Well christ, this entire situation was full of little scholarly betrayals. “I fleshed out that idea I had about Reverend Hale in The Crucible.”

The bell for the start of the period had rung then.

“Maybe you’ll allow me to read that sometime,” Geoff said, trying not to act hurt but feeling suddenly a little vindictive. Michael just nodded.

\---

Geoff called Ryan right after school, before he’d had a chance to talk to Michael about any of it.

“I assume Michael told you the good news?” Geoff asked.

“What?”

“About the grant? How he’ll be joining you in Bellingham in the fall?”

“Shit,” Ryan said. “No, he hasn’t called me. That’s great!”

“Good, I’m glad I’m not the last to know about _everything_ , then,” Geoff said.

Then there had been a pause.

“You’re not mad about the recommendation letter, are you?” Ryan had asked. “Because I did say something when he approached me about it, but he insisted you were too biased to write it.”

Geoff sighed.

“He was probably right,” he admitted.

“Listen, you’re _supposed_ to be your boyfriend’s biggest fan,” Ryan had said. Geoff could tell he was smiling by his voice. “It says a lot about Michael that he wanted to get it on his own merit.”

“Yeah, yeah, talk me down from getting my feelings hurt about it, whatever,” Geoff had said. “It doesn’t change the fact that he literarily cheated on me and sent off an essay I haven’t even gotten to read yet.”

“Oh, ouch,” Ryan said sarcastically. “It’s a great analysis. You should get him to let you see it.”

“He let _you_ read it?”

“God, are you going to take a swing at me the next time you see me over this?”

“A soft swing, yeah,” Geoff said.

They bullshitted then, back and forth, about the rest of the semester, how Ryan’s classes were going at Coastal, what the summer would be like. Ryan told Geoff he’d be flying across the country to help Ray get set up at Rutgers, doing his summer classes online. He was even renting a place not far from campus for the season, looking for someone to rent his house in Bellingham while he was gone and hoping he wouldn’t spend the summer managing short-term Airbnb rentals.

“How much are you asking for your place for the summer?”

“I don’t know, not much really,” Ryan said. “I just don’t want to hemorrhage money on a mortgage _and_ a rental property for three months.”

“What if I told you I know someone looking to rent a place in Bellingham for the summer?”

\---

They’d decided it easily. Ryan had drafted up a three-month lease and emailed it over to Geoff. Geoff had filled it out and dropped a check in the mail. Three months’ rent. Time in the bank.

\---

SUMMER

The nostalgia--or whatever it is--wears off a little as Michael hauls his bag to the second story and begins to unpack a few things.

Hiking boots he bought with his graduation money. Paperback books he’s been putting off reading. Swim trunks that had seen better days.

His mouth is dry and his head is still a little uneasy from the long ride in the car. He doesn’t want to be alone in the cabin--or at least, certainly not alone in the upstairs bedroom. The memory of their last morning there feels fresh and sore, Michael trying not to cry because it suddenly seemed like they were facing the end of “them,” the end of being happy together.

He hadn’t been entirely wrong. It was the end of the naive happiness that cloaked the cabin, at the very least.

\---

SPRING

That weekend after the scholarship reveal, they’d violated their own rule about not seeing each other much and Geoff had taken Michael out for a movie and dinner in Spokane. They’d spend two nights together, they agreed--a rare luxury. Not something they’d done often, and not something they’d done even once in the spring semester.

“By my count, you owe me 44 days already,” Michael said, poking a hole into a steaming egg roll with a chopstick. “So I hope you’re working on that plan. There’s still a month left before graduation.”

Geoff had fixed him with a strange smile.

“What?” Michael asked.

“If you could have 44, why not 90?” Geoff asked. He held Michael’s eyes as he sipped sake, dark tattooed hand around the little cup.

“Is this a fucking word problem? Because my math brain is shut off for the weekend, I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you it’s not a word problem,” Geoff had said through his smile. “I’m telling you that I want to spend the entire goddamn summer with you.”

“Yeah, me too, but--”

“That we’re _going_ to spend the whole summer together. Out of Chewelah.”

Michael cocked his head, peering at Geoff. He set his chopsticks down.

“We gonna go to summer camp together or…?”

“I rented a place. Three months in Bellingham. Check’s already in the mail and the lease is signed.”

“What the fuck? When did you do this? You weren’t even gonna talk to me?”

“I did it on Monday” Geoff said. “What, you’re not gonna come with me?”

“No, christ, of course--fuck, Geoff! How do you just sit on information like this?”

“Says the kid who chose a college and accepted a huge talent grant without telling me,” Geoff said, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey--listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t know if I want to punch you or kiss you right now.”

“Well you’ve got the next two nights with me to make up your mind,” Geoff said.

\---

As it turned out, the summer rental was serendipitous for Michael.

He’d been rejected from on-campus housing the following week because he’d submitted his request so late. Renting a place off campus with Lindsay and Gavin as roommates was out--they’d both be living in dorms. And Michael didn’t know anyone else going to Coastal.

His parents had helped him look online for student-friendly housing near the Coastal campus, but everything was either prohibitively expensive or had reviews so bad they were terrifying. It was hard to tell whether he could rely on the nice pictures online of the rooms or if he should trust the shitty reviews more.

He’d turned to Ryan, the only person he knew in Bellingham.

“Hey Mr. Haywood--sorry to call out of the blue…”

“No problem Michael--what’s on your mind?”

Michael had explained his predicament and his fears.

“So do you know of any, like, even halfway decent apartment complexes around?” Michael asked.

“A few,” Ryan had said, obviously distracted.

“What is it?”

“Well, I’m just thinking. I mean, we know each other, and Geoff has already vouched that you’re not gonna tear up my place.”

“Yeah Mr. Haywood, I’m not a shitbag,” Michael said into the phone. “What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you just rent my spare room?”

They talked through it that night. It was an easy solution. Michael’s parents had met Ryan the year that he taught Michael English, knew that Ryan had helped secure Michael’s talent grant. In short, they trusted him.

Ryan’s house, though small, was in a nice neighborhood with a separate bath and bedroom for Michael. Ample parking. A washer and dryer Michael was welcome to use. Ryan even offered the same rate to Michael that he’d offered to Geoff for the summer--which came out to be a little less than dorm housing.

And unlike in a dorm--Michael thought but didn’t say out loud to Ryan--Geoff could visit and stay the night.

“You don’t think Ray would be weirded out, do you?” Michael said as their conversation wound down.

“Hm,” Ryan said, and then a long pause. “Well one of us should talk to him before you talk to you parents about it.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “Let me call him. I’ll text you.”

“What about Geoff?” Ryan had said, catching him before he hung up.

“He’s not gonna care,” Michael said.

“Uh, you mind if I actually verify that with him?”

“Yeah, do whatever,” Michael said, impatient to call Ray.

They’d gotten off the phone and Michael called Ray immediately.

“Oh my god a real phone call,” Ray had said in place of a hello. “You’re not texting me. Did somebody die?”

“Fuck you, Ray, some of us don’t have time to type eight million goddamn paragraphs just to avoid human contact,” Michael said.

“Guess I should be honored you’re working me into your busy schedule.”

“So _anyway_ ,” Michael said, ignoring the jab, “I asked Haywood if he had any leads on where I could live this semester in Bellingham.”

“Mhm.”

“And he offered me a lease on his spare room.”

“Nice.”

“Is that… you know, ok with you?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be in New Jersey. I won’t need it.”

“Yeah, but like,” Michael said, struggling to find the right thing to say. “That’s not gonna bother you? Me and Haywood living alone together?”

“I mean, by all means please don’t fuck my boyfriend,” Ray said. “Is that part of the lease or something?”

Michael laughed, shaking his head.

“Fuck you, you know what I mean,” Michael said.

“Nah, we’re cool,” Ray said. “If you guys do the do, I get to fuck Ramsey, ok?”

“Jesus Christ, Ray.”

\---

“Ahhh y’ello?” Geoff had answered, buzzed and even a little cheerful to see Ryan’s name on his phone.

“Geoff, hey, just got off the phone with Michael,” Ryan said.

“You guys should date with all the talking you do on the phone,” Geoff teased. “I hear his boyfriend’s a real asshole anyway.”

“Yeah, about that.”

“Jesus Christ that’s a terrible segue Ryan,” Geoff had said. “Is there something you need to tell me? You’re freakin’ me out buddy.”

“No--I--shit, he called me to see if I could help him find an apartment in Bellingham,” Ryan said. The man sounded strangely uncomfortable.

“Yeah, he said all the dorms filled up for fall.”

“And I offered him my place.”

“Shit man, really?”

“Yeah, I mean, there’s room and… well I wasn’t going to _say_ this to him of course but I’d kind of be pleased if I could keep an eye on him.”  

“Ryan, that would be amazing.”

“You sure?”

“Uhh… Did you think I was gonna be mad that Michael found a place to live?”

“It won’t bother you for us to live together?”

“Ryan. I know you’re not gonna make a move on Michael, jesus,” he said. “And like you said, I’d rather him live with you than some asshole stranger roommates who don’t give a fuck about him.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, I should thank you for offering it, really,” Geoff said.

“Don’t get me wrong, the rent money will help me out, too,” Ryan said. “And I wouldn’t mind the company.”

They’d paused then.

“Hey, uh, unrelated,” Geoff said. “Does your house have thin walls or… You know, is it decently sound-proofed?”

“Don’t be a creep,” Ryan said. “Yes you can come stay with him.”

\---

SUMMER

Geoff barrels down the highway towards Index, windows down, music blasting.

“Round round get around--I get around!” His mood is buoyant and the only thing he could think of to match the unusually sunny feeling was the Beach Boys.

Every mile he puts between himself and Chewelah feels like a victory.

They had made it, hadn’t they? Yeah, the spring semester had seen some fights. No, gaining Michael’s trust again hadn’t been a perfect process. But they’d moved forward from December. Geoff hadn’t gotten fired and Michael hadn’t failed out. Close calls at being discovered hadn’t  amounted to much. Michael seemed to have even salvaged his relationship with Ray.

They’d made it. Geoff would never be Michael’s teacher again. He could be Michael’s boyfriend--his partner--and although the rest that was wrapped up in all of it was present and would always be present at the base of Geoff’s brain, they were absolutely moving forward.

Washington feels the way that it did when Geoff arrived at 18: turquoise and glittering, a paradise. The Wild goddamn West where he can carve out any reality that he wants for himself.

He hasn’t seen Michael since graduation week--Michael’s choice, incredibly.

“I should spend some time with my parents before I leave, right?” he’d said on the phone. Geoff had been full up with pride at that. “I mean, we’ll see each other all summer.”

“Gross, when did you get so mature?” Geoff teased.

“Listen.”

“I’m listening…?”

“Anyway, fuck you. We can wait seven days, right?”

“I’d wait forever for you, Michael.”

“Gross,” Michael had teased. “When did _you_ get so romantic?”

But god it’s easy to keep falling for Michael every day now, the burden of being his teacher off of Geoff’s heart. Geoff hasn’t actually seen him since he was no longer officially in high school. Those seven days hadn’t been rough or lonely, though. They’d been filled with the type of manic, bubbling anticipation Geoff hadn’t felt in years. Like a kid waiting for his birthday party. And the gentle thrum of _summer, summer, summer_ had pulsed in the background as Geoff tried to read and cook and pack and be a productive member of society.

Now, on the road, in the mountains, Geoff is goddamn saturated with it. Fizzing with it. Singing as loud as he can about it.

He gets to a stretch of straight road and flicks his phone open, calling Michael as he drives. It rings and rings and goes to voicemail--maybe Michael’s still driving too.

“Michaellll,” Geoff says, dragging out his name as he leaves a message. “I’m about half an hour outside of Index. Easily the worst half hour of my life. Hope you got there safe and I’ll see ya’ soon.” He clicks the phone closed and tosses it on the seat next to him, turning the tape back up and belting out along with Brian Wilson.

\---

The view from the porch is stunning. The movement of his eyes along the horizon begins to knead the tension out of Michael. The open space, the play of the mountains’ angles--it takes the odd nostalgia hanging over the place and begins to dissolve it.

Michael ought to send a picture to Ray, he thinks. He reaches for his phone only to realize that he’d left it upstairs--so he jogs a few paces into the cabin and up to the second story.

Shit, he’d missed a call from Geoff. He taps the voicemail and holds the phone up to his ear.

“Michaellll,” it starts out. Michael can tell Geoff was smiling when he left the message, can hear the rush of wind through open windows. He listens, grinning.

“I’ll see ya’ soon,” Geoff says in conclusion. Then there’s loud fumbling, the sound of a soft impact, and the music crescendos.

“WOOOULDN’T IT be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so looong,” Geoff sings over top of the garbled music.

“Oh my god,” Michael says out loud to no one, snickering. Had Geoff _meant_ to leave him a serenade?

“And WOULDn’t it be nice to live together,” Geoff sings at the top of his lungs, voice cracking ridiculously, “in the kind of world where we belong!”

The last molecules of anxiety, sadness are scrubbed from Michael’s heart and he laughs on the border of hysterics at the message. He just wishes Geoff would hurry up and get here.

\---

“Michael?” Geoff’s voice echoes in the cabin.

The sound of feet running across the upstairs floor greets him, and he stands at the foot of the spiral staircase waiting.

Michael careens down the stairs, skipping steps and half-sliding down to meet Geoff.

“Hey--” Geoff starts to say, dropping a bag at his feet--but he’s cut off as Michael barrels into him full speed, half knocking the wind out of him.

“Oof, holy shit,” Geoff says through a laugh. Michael’s got him around the waist with both arms, squeezing hard and almost lifting him off the ground.

“Took you long enough you fuckin’ dick,” Michael says, burying his face in Geoff’s shirt. “I got your voicemail. Thanks for the concert.”

“Did I…?”

“Yeah you left me five minutes of oldies after your message,” Michael says, pulling back to smile up at him. “And let me say, it’s a good thing I didn’t fall for you because of your voice.”

“No? I always thought it was one of my better qualities.”

“We’re still taking the big bedroom upstairs, right?” Michael asks, reaching for Geoff’s bag. “I feel like we should get it by default because of the pool table.” He turns and starts back up the stairs. Geoff follows.

“I’m sure Ryan and Ray won’t complain about the first floor room,” Geoff says. “It’s not as if there’s a bad view in the whole place.”

\---

In looking forward to their return to the cabin, Geoff had played out plenty of scenarios regarding his arrival that day. Most of them ended with the two of them in bed together--the conclusion feeling inevitable after the time apart, the tension. Release would be natural and welcomed.

But instead, after Michael pulls him up the stairs and towards the bed, Michael drops his hand and sits on the edge of the bed, pulling on heavy-looking hiking boots.

“You brought your boots, right?” Michael asks, not looking up.

“You only reminded me a hundred times,” Geoff says. “Yeah I have ‘em. You want to go for a hike _now_?”

“Absolutely,” Michael says.

Geoff is shocked and--frankly--pleased. More and more of their interactions seem to go like this: Geoff guessing at one thing and Michael’s reality being another. And for every part of Geoff that had assumed a familiarity was what would make his love for Michael more intense, there are ten more parts of him that fall for Michael because of who he continues to reveal himself to be. Spontaneous, strong-willed, capricious and quick to anger and quick to forgive and refusing to fall into a pattern or be categorized.

Geoff paws through his bag and produces his own boots. He begins to unlace them.

\---

For their hike, they choose the smallest peak. It’s Michael’s first time wearing the new boots and Geoff pesters him with motherly reminders as they start the trek.

“If you start feeling a hot spot--even a _little_ bit of discomfort--you tell me and we’ll stop for you to adjust the boots,” Geoff says. “You’d be shocked how fast something goes from rubbing a little to being a giant bleeding blister.”

Michael rolls his eyes. He’s worn shoes before, jesus christ.

Still, he tries to be patient with Geoff and lets the other man set the pace. Neither of them is exactly an athlete, but Michael acknowledges that he’s younger, that he’s never had a backache, and that most of his hobbies don’t revolve around sitting still and drinking bourbon. Geoff was going to be more sore than he was.

After the first mile, they don’t talk much. Not because it is too strenuous or taxing, though. There is simply too much to take in, too much to hear and to see, to break it up with language. Instead they both drink in the sounds of the mountain alive and around them, birdsong and rustling leaves, and their own steady footfalls, their even and strained breaths measured like a metronome and familiar, the score of quiet sex together and--now--of the mountain climb.

\---

Michael speeds up the pace as they come to a sign pointing towards the first lookout point. The trek has been slow and steep, 30 minutes for each mile. But this is what Michael had wanted, Geoff knows, and Michael throws a smile over his shoulder at Geoff when they near their destination.

Geoff crops and saves the image in his mind because his breath catches at the sight, all of the oxygen gone out of him. Michael almost at 19, Michael with more freckles now than when he had met Geoff, Michael with too-long hair falling across his forehead, Michael’s face so open and unburdened. With a jolt, Geoff realizes that his body’s reaction to it is almost the same thing he feels whenever he sees mountains for the first time after a long absence, and though Geoff has no lack of hard evidence that Michael’s continued presence in his life is nothing short of a profound grace, he can barely begin to process that this is his reality, that he’s been granted this moment and this image.

Michael runs ahead, then, jogging the last little bit to the lookout and disappearing around a corner.

The lookout point, when Geoff arrives, is a flat slab of rock jutting out like a shelf from the terrain. The ledge tilts up into the air with a steep drop below. And before them lies the Cascades, the rest of Western Washington, the wild spine of the earth under late afternoon light.

Michael is eight or nine feet from the edge, looking for something in his backpack and Geoff can’t believe he’s able to look away from the arresting horizon. But after a moment, Michael produces two surprises from his pack: a heavy-looking camera and a little tripod. He begins to unfold the tripod, extending its legs.

“When’d you get that?” Geoff asks.

“This week,” Michael says, looking up with him at a smile. “I found it at a Spokane pawn shop and used some of my graduation money.”

The camera looks nice--professional grade. A big black dSLR.

“And you already know how to use it?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, puffing out a laugh. “What else was I supposed to do while I waited all week to come here?”

He sets up the tripod and begins to screw the camera down onto it.

“You won’t let me help pay for rent or anything this summer, since you’re an asshole,” Michael says as he sets it up. He goes to the other side, lining up a shot in the viewfinder. “So I thought of a way to repay you, at least a little.”

Geoff steps close, watching him as he works.

“You know, we don’t even have any pictures together?” Michael says, looking up, apparently happy with his shot.

“I have a feeling that’s about to change,” Geoff says through a smile.

Michael fiddles with a setting and then: “Shit, quick, come here!”

He herds Geoff to the ledge as the camera pulses a small light. A self-timer countdown, Geoff realizes. Michael is pushing him by the hips.

“No, no, left, come on Geoff it’s gonna--”

And the distinct click of the camera goes off as Geoff is laughing hard at the absurdity of it. Michael lets out an exaggerated groan.

“Don’t fucking move a muscle,” Michael says, holding up a hand to caution Geoff against fucking up a second picture before striding quickly back to the tripod. He hits the button again and returns to Geoff’s side with plenty of time for the two of them to get positioned. _What does it look like to be a normal couple?_ Geoff wonders. Michael’s arm is around his waist, then, and Geoff lays an arm across his shoulders easily. He smiles, doing his best not to make it look like an uncomfortable prom photo.

“There,” Michael says after they hear the click. “I think we got it that time.” He smiles up at Geoff.

“Let’s do one more,” Geoff says. “Just in case.” Michael nods, returns to the camera, starts the third round on the self timer. They get situated again, Michael moving to make the same pose. Geoff counts along with the pulsing light.

And as the last three pulses flash, Geoff spins Michael in his arms, grabbing him hard by the face and stooping the last few inches to pull Michael into a kiss as the camera clicks--and they’re both smiling into it in that moment, fighting back a laugh maybe, and both men must realize at the same instant that they haven’t kissed in more than a week and there on the edge of the mountain they dissolve into it, open themselves to it, and in the end neither is sure how long the kiss lasts but it is comfortable and exciting. It’s home, here on the side of the mountain.

\---

The pulse of anticipation is a shared heartbeat as they descend the mountain. It’s quicker going down, always is, and Michael is pulling off his clothes from the minute he steps into the cabin through the sliding glass door. Michael is half afraid that Geoff will place a hand across his bare chest and say his name in that firm way that means “slow down” and “there’s plenty of time”--but when he turns to look at Geoff, the man is just a pace behind him, his face slack and his chin tilted down. They only make it to the kitchen before they crash together, Michael’s back against the counter, Geoff’s weight against him.

“Is this OK?” Michael asks, not even sure what he’s asking permission for, what he needs reassurance about.

“Yeah,” Geoff says, leaning to kiss him, to suck against Michael’s bottom lip. “You have no idea how much I want you, Michael.”

And any last bit of Michael that may have been holding back is gone now, Geoff going a little rough with him, pressing more weight onto him, the counter biting into his back and Michael arching to grind his hips against the taller man. There’s a real relief, sometimes, when Geoff doesn’t treat him like something fragile.

\---

Geoff has sucked an assortment of marks across the skin of Michael’s chest, has hitched the smaller man up bare-assed onto the kitchen counter, has lost most of himself in the flow of the moment before it occurs to him that the granite countertop might not be the most comfortable spot for any of this.

His disengages and Michael whimpers a little, soft.

“C’mere,” Geoff says. Michael hitches an eyebrow, maybe not understanding--so Geoff reaches out to grip Michael under the knees, lifting him a bit. Michael gets it then, throws his legs around Geoff’s waist and his arms around Geoff’s neck as the man lifts him all the way off the counter.

“I swear to christ if you drop me, Geoff,” Michael threatens, trailing off.

“You’ll what?” Geoff teases, carrying Michael towards the stairs. “You won’t let me fuck you?”

“I’ll--hey, listen, you’re--” Michael says, trying to act mad and failing. “If you drop me and break my dick off you’re gonna be sorry, ok?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Geoff says, almost halfway up the stairs now. Michael is light and carrying him is beautifully easy. Still, when they reach the second story, he pretends he needs a break and navigates him towards the pool table. He sets Michael down gently on the lip of the table, and Michael doesn’t let his legs fall from around Geoff’s waist, instead using the leverage of the table to rock into Geoff.

Geoff catches him in a kiss again, and when they break, Michael’s eyes are open and clear and he’s smiling.

“You know the night we met, when you were giving me your expert instructions on setting up a shot?” Michael asks.

Geoff can’t help but puff out a laugh at the memory. He’d recalled it often--the way he’d laid his chest against Michael’s back, framed the then-stranger’s arms with his own and loved in that moment the way that Michael fit into his body. But he also remembers the way that it had been such a con, that he’d been telling Michael things the kid already knew. Geoff can’t stop smiling. So much has changed, the only consistency derived from the fact that Michael never stopped surprising him.

“Yeah,” Geoff says, smiling. “I remember.” Michael digs his hands into Geoff’s hips as he bucks against him.

“I remember feeling you--this hot, tattooed stranger--press yourself up against me,” Michael says, low, in the voice reserved for dirty teasing. “And thinking ‘holy shit, this guy is about to fuck me over this pool table.’”

They both chuckle light at the memory. Another kiss.

“Maybe it’s not too late for that,” Geoff says into the skin behind Michael’s ear. He’d much rather they make it all the way to the bed--but if this is something Michael wants, there’s no way Geoff will deny him.

But instead of laying back on the table, Michael stays tight against him.

“I think we’ve had enough uncomfortable sex this year,” Michael says. “And I’m ready to replace the last memory we made in that bed with a better one. Aren’t you?”

Geoff doesn’t bother answering. He hitches Michael up and takes the last few steps to the bedroom.

\---

Michael keeps expecting Geoff to force a slower pace. He always does. Geoff always wants to take his time--or at least protests when Michael pushes them too quick.

Maybe it’s because they’ll have the whole summer together or maybe it’s just that Geoff needs it as bad as Michael does this time, because as soon as the older man has deposited him on the bed, he’s moved to paw through his duffel bag.

“You brought lube?” Michael asks. Geoff pauses and gives him a dubious look.

“No,” Geoff says. “I packed for an entire summer with you and didn’t bring any lube. The fact that I have a boner for you is coming as a total shock to me right now, Michael. I’m completely unprepared.”

“Alright, alright,” Michael says, flopping back onto the bed and rolling his eyes. “Point taken.”

Geoff returns then, pushing Michael further onto the bed, bottle in one hand, taking his place between Michael’s knees.

“‘ _You brought lube?_ ’ he asks me,” Geoff says under his breath in a dorky imitation of Michael. “The fuck do you take me for.”

“I don’t sound like that,” Michael protests through a laugh, watching Geoff slick a finger.

“ _‘I don’t sound like that, wehhh,’_ ” Geoff says softly in the same stupid voice, positioning himself over Michael.

“Fuck you, Geoff.”

“Gladly.”

And with that, Geoff leans to kiss him as he presses the pad of his finger against Michael’s ass. Michael hums into the kiss, relaxing as Geoff slides into him. He wants it--wants more almost immediately, willing his body to adjust as Geoff begins the tedious process of prepping him. It always seems quicker when it goes hand-in-hand with longer foreplay but neither of them is patient enough for it today, Michael thinks. Michael wants Geoff to be as close as he can as fast as he can, wants Geoff to be in him now--not in a few minutes--and he whines as Geoff slowly begins to pump and crook his finger into him.

“Come on,” Michael says, softly. He gives Geoff a pleading look.

“Yeah?”

Michael just nods. And Geoff--perfect Geoff who _finally_ goddamn trusts him sometimes--slows and pulls out and now begins to work two fingers into him. The new sensation pulses through him and Michael throws back his head with a moan, letting the weight of his skull fall down into the soft comforter beneath him.

When he finally looks back to Geoff’s face, Geoff is breathing open-mouthed, his brows knit as he watches Michael falling apart under him.

Michael has an odd moment of lucidity then: Geoff looks better than he ever has before. Not pale and hollow-eyed. He’s tanned, filled out, has the look of someone who knows how to go to sleep independent of half a bottle of bourbon.

And what Michael feels in that moment as Geoff strokes into him is beyond love and attraction, Michael realizes. He’s… a little _proud_ of Geoff. Michael bites down a smile at the absurd thought but there it is. Healthy Geoff, Geoff of sound mind. The Geoff that loves him.

Christ. He gets to have all summer with this man. When did this become a reality? How is it possible?

Geoff must not notice the reverie Michael has slipped into, because he continues at his prep work. He pulls out again and Michael’s eyes widen as he realizes Geoff is about to work a third finger into him. The other man must really not be in the mood for a slow pace, then--and the realization eclipses the sweet little line of thinking Michael had indulged in with lust.

\---

At the third finger, Michael is whining and moaning and then begging softly. He ought to know by now that Geoff won’t deny him and isn’t even in the mood to take his time--but the sounds Michael makes as he pleads with Geoff to fuck him are never, ever unwelcome.

And finally as Michael goes pliant and relaxed under him, both of them are ready.

Geoff sits back on his heels and watches Michael watch him as he slicks his cock, strokes down his own length, pauses to grin and play a minute with the metal ring punctuating his erection. His body won’t wait for teasing, though, and after a moment he’s got Michael by the hips, lifting him a little, positioning himself before that first sweet instant when he’s sinking into Michael.

The prep work had been worth it, and if the expressions that flash across Michael’s face are telling the truth, the man underneath Geoff feels nothing but pleasure from the first long stroke Geoff lays into him.

\---

There are few things as satisfying, Michael thinks, as watching Geoff’s heavy-lidded eyes flutter closed as he begins to fuck Michael. They get lost in each other for a moment, Geoff slowly falling forward, letting their chests touch as he rocks steadily into Michael. Geoff skips the normal ritual of a few long, questioning thrusts--the phase of “are you ok?” and “are you sure?” that he so often began with--and Michael is thankful for it as they establish a quick rhythm.

Geoff’s weight on top of him feels so right, the movement of the man’s hips into him, the fullness and pleasure of the cock working into him.

The melancholy is gone, the weird nostalgia. Geoff is here--has been here. The man has spent the last five months earning Michael’s trust again and now as Michael ruts up against him, he realizes that he does trust Geoff. Deeply. And in a way that is more complex, fuller than it had been in the winter.

Geoff has earned it this time.

Michael is in love with a real man, someone he knows. Not with the _idea_ of someone, a caricature of Geoff, a tattooed stranger in a bar, an illicit lover he shouldn’t want. Geoff Ramsey is real and is an asshole and has deep-seated fucking issues but he’s also vaguely brilliant and funny and in possession of a depth of thought and passion that Michael is only just now beginning to understand--and all of this is sitting right behind Michael’s eyes as he looks up into that face and smiles and moans as they rock into each other here in Index, no longer escaping the reality of what the are but making a life they can share.

\---

“You with me?” Geoff asks, tilting to lay his forehead against Michael’s.

The faraway stare dissolves and Michael’s brown eyes flash. He’s smiling.

“With you,” Michael says. “With you, Geoff.”

It hasn’t taken much for the beginnings of an orgasm to begin unfurling in Geoff. The fact that he’s wanted Michael so badly for so long has only been compounded by the fact that they are here again at the cabin, that they have a summer laying before them, that they had spent the day apart and then suddenly together, on the side of a mountain, watching the sun slip through a perfect blue sky.

The pleasure is too much and he can’t fight it as they grasp at each other, as Geoff twists his fingers into Michael’s hips, letting the momentum and the stimulation guide him as he kisses the soft skin at Michael’s neck, feels the weight of the smaller man in his hands, strokes into the tight heat.

“Can I come, Geoff?” Michael is asking in a sweet voice--and the words alone are almost enough to push Geoff past the point of no return.

Geoff keeps it together, though, and in answer he finds Michael’s cock between their two bodies and begins to stroke him in time with his own hips. He can feel Michael tighten around him at the new stimulation and now Geoff has peaked, he’s on the other side, crashing towards orgasm as he twists his hand around Michael’s length.

“Yeah Michael,” he says softly after a moment. “I want you to come, baby.”

The words are enough and Michael lets out a strangled moan--almost a laugh--through a smile as he comes in Geoff’s hand, pulsing around Geoff’s cock as the waves crash over him.

That’s all it takes for Geoff, now, and his tether on reality and gravity and time goes slack, everything inside of him going blank and white, the pleasure of orgasm the only sensation as it sweeps through him, overtakes him, guides his last strokes into the man underneath him, the person he loves more than any other, the only person who knows him maybe--and even after Geoff thinks the wave has crested, the crescendo in him continues and he realizes he hasn’t reached the summit yet, that he’s still coming somehow, impossibly, even as his muscles go feeble with fatigue, he’s still coming.

\---

Michael watches with hazy fascination as Geoff moans abruptly, his eyes flying open as he rocks the last few beats into Michael--and he knows just from looking at Geoff that the other man has just had one hell of an orgasm. He goes heavy for a moment on top of Michael, breathing hard and recovering before finally uttering a broken, “fuck.”

Michael laughs underneath him, the force of the spasms of laughter lifting both of them in little bursts.

“That good?’ Michael asks.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geoff repeats, louder this time and still not moving.

“You’re gonna crush me,” Michael says, not unkind.

“Mhmm,” Geoff says, not moving.

“Damn it, Geoff,” Michael says, laughing again.

“Mhmm.”

The man is back to himself now but he won’t move and Michael can feel Geoff smiling into his neck. Michael slips his hands up slowly until he find’s Geoff’s armpits, ghosting his fingertips up into the crooks.

“Ah haha, no! No fair!” Geoff protests, pushing himself quickly away. “You can’t let me have one second of afterglow?”

“Not if it involves me not breathing, no,” Michael says. “And that was like two minutes, Geoff, fuck.”

He looks at Geoff with mock disgust but the other man just pulls him hard across the top of the bed until he’s pressed into Geoff’s chest. They lay like that for a moment, content to just breathe and laugh.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see this place again,” Michael admits after they’ve been silent for a few minutes.

“We almost didn’t.”

And at that, Geoff pulls him tighter, skin pressed against skin from their feet to their faces, both men consumed with the desire to never feel anything but this closeness but at the same time not desperate, not fevered, not scared of the inevitable truth that there will always be time apart, that they will never fully consume each other, that no one person can ever know every shred of another but that the pull of love will keep them practically just as tight, the strongest tether forged between them.

\---

After dinner, Geoff builds a fire in the pit outside. The night air is pleasantly crisp, and the steady crackle of the fire is comforting, familiar.

Michael joins him a few minutes after the fire is really roaring. His figure emerges out of the darkness and to the edge of the red and orange light. He’s holding something balled in his hands.

“I have a surprise,” Michael says.

Geoff watches him warily as he steps further into the light. He unfurls what he has in his hands and it takes a moment for Geoff to understand what he’s seeing.

Michael is holding his high school uniform, the khakis and neon green polo gone weird in the firelight. Geoff laughs high and helpless.

“That awful thing?” he asks.

“I brought it so we can burn it,” Michael says cheerfully.

“God that’s beautiful,” Geoff says. “Please throw that thing on the fire. I’m ready to never see it again.”

Michael takes a seat on the log beside Geoff and slings him a smarmy look.

“I mean, we don’t have to burn it tonight,” Michael says. “You sure you don’t want me to put this on and we can fool around while I wear it?”

“Jesus christ,” Geoff says with a laugh and a shudder. “I don’t think I can even get it up around that thing.”

Michael raises an eyebrow at him.

“That’s _not_ a challenge. Please,” Geoff says. “On the fire.”

Michael smirks and tosses both garments in. Geoff curls an arm around him as they watch flames licking the last remnants of their old barriers.

\---

Ryan and Ray arrive mid-morning the next day. They find a note from the two men and, after depositing a few bags in the downstairs cabin bedroom, they begin the short walk down to the lake.

They arrive right as Michael is performing a spectacular cannonball uncomfortably close to where Geoff is floating.

“Hey, watch it,” Geoff warns when Michael surfaces. “You’ll make me lose my goddamn sunglasses.”

“Oh yeah those pink two-dollar wonders,” Michael sneers, splashing him and grabbing him by the shoulders as Geoff treads water. “That’d be a real shame. Maybe don’t wear them into the water next time, genius.”

“Boys, please,” Ray says in a loud voice from the end of the dock. “No roughhousing in the water.”

They both turn, twin smiles greeting their friends who peer down from the dock.

“You coming in?” Geoff asks by way of hello.

“Honestly I’m still confused about how anyone talked me into a vacation that involved being outdoors,” Ray says, flipping up his hoodie against the sun. “But I’ll watch from here.”

“I might could be persuaded,” Ryan says.

“You want me to go back and get your trunks?” Ray asks. He’s already sat down onto the warm wooden planks. But Ryan doesn’t respond, is kicking off his shoes, unbuckling his belt, stripping off his shirt. Michael and Geoff laugh from the water as Ray mutters a small, slightly embarrassed “oh my god.”

And after a moment, clad in his boxers, Ryan leaps in a high arc, performing his own cannonball.

“ _Jeeee_ sus christ, Ryan,” Geoff says as Michael and Ryan dissolve into laughter. “You two are the worst.”

“Can you even fucking imagine what it’s gonna be like after they’ve been _living together_ for a year?” Ray asks. “What are we even gonna do, Ramsey?”

“We’re gonna need a support group,” Geoff says, trying to comb water droplets out of his facial hair. “That much is apparent.”

\---

The four men will remember the next two days as some of the happiest times any of them have ever experienced, though different parts will stand out for each man.

Michael will never forget the way that Geoff orders Ryan around the kitchen on the first night, instructing him how to chop and saute shallots for a pan sauce. The easy laughter the two men have as they work together and pretend to fight now and then, slinging jokes back and forth, getting lost in a conversation about a book Michael has never heard of. Ray setting the table for them and the four of them sitting down. Ryan asking straight-faced if they should say grace and Geoff and Ray going raucous over the suggestion. Hands passing around a basket of bread, arms crossing for butter and salt and pepper, platters pushed across the table and savory smells and laughter and the sounds of flatware on plates.

Ryan will never forget that first afternoon when they all climb the spiral staircase to the second story after Michael challenges them to a game of pool. How Michael and Ray team up against Ryan and Geoff, Michael explaining that it’s almost an equal match since Ryan and Geoff are halfway decent and Ray is such utter shit at it that it almost balances out to a passable average. How Ray doesn’t even pretend to be offended, his eyes squeezing shut as he laughs every time he scratches, how on some turns Ray misses the cue ball entirely. How he and Ray dissolve into hysterics as Geoff and Michael bicker about the rules.

Geoff will never forget that second morning with all four of them together as they work to talk Ray into hiking a gentle, sloping trail with them. The way that Michael’s enthusiasm for the outing is so contagious that by the time they start up the trail, Ray is having a hard time maintaining his neutral, outdoors-hating persona. How Ryan quietly points out edible mushrooms to Ray, jewel-colored beetles. How Michael takes Geoff’s hand from time to time, catching him with a smile before trotting up ahead. How, when they finally reach a point with a nice view, Michael works fast to set up his camera again, to turn on the timer, and they take half a dozen goofy photos there on a low outcropping, the four pressed together and sweating and laughing.

Ray will never forget that second night as they sit down to watch movies, the warmth on either side of him radiating off of Ryan and Michael, the way none of them feels unfamiliar after the days spent together, the utter comfort, the singular feeling that everyone in the room accepts him, likes him, cares about him--even Ramsey. How Michael leans into him as Michael begins dozing. How the two of them somehow end up spooned together across the couch, their heads in Ramsey’s lap, their feet in Ryan’s, and how both men laugh as Michael snores and Ray looks at them and quietly reminds the two of them that if word gets out about this little domestic scene, he’ll find them both and murder them. Ray knows where they sleep, after all.

“At least you’re the big spoon,” Ramsey says quietly, stroking a hand through Michael’s hair, and Ryan laughs softly into the night air.

\---

Their shared time at the cabin comes to an end after Michael and Geoff’s third night. Geoff had booked the cabin for four nights--one night just for he and Michael; two nights for all four of them; and one night just for Ryan and Ray.

That last morning is so blindingly different for Michael than the last morning of their winter trip to the cabin that it’s almost difficult for him to wrap his mind around the fact that it’s the same place.

Ray and Michael are seated at the bar, watching Ryan and Geoff in the kitchen. Geoff is tending pancakes, his tattooed hand steady on the heavy frying pan as he shows off, flipping a flapjack into the air and catching it neatly back in the pan. Ryan is chopping fruit at a counter nearby. Michael and Ray both stir heaps of sugar into their coffee, talking quietly about the rest of the summer in between watching the other two men as they work.

Instead of feeling bittersweet at the realization that this is their last morning here, Michael feels exhilarated that today is the day they head to Bellingham.

There would be more weekends at the cabin, after all--maybe even with Ryan and Ray, too.

\---

Bellies full and cars loaded down with boxes, Michael and Geoff say goodbye to Ryan and Ray for the time being.

It’s harder for Michael to say goodbye to Ray than it was to leave his parents, he realizes, and he must hug Ray for a few beats too long because after a minute, Ray gives him a hard squeeze and says “Don’t cry on me, brah,” in a dumb jock voice.

Michael laughs, pulls back.

“I’ll cry on you whenever the fuck I want,” he says, laughing. “I feel like I just got you back as a friend and now we’re leaving again.”

“I never stopped being your friend, jackass,” Ray says. “And all I do is text you anyway. Just pretend like I’m in the same town as you and it’ll be, like, 99.9% exactly the same as it was in Chewelah.”

\---

Geoff leads the way to Bellingham with Michael in his little sedan, puttering behind Geoff’s hatchback. He’s never been to Ryan’s house before, but the man gave him good directions along with a set of the house keys, and Geoff is at least familiar with the general neighborhood.

Bellingham, when they arrive, is just how it is in Geoff’s mind: green and blue and lush and busy, vibrant with students and cars and storefronts and sunshine. A place with promise--for both of them now.

Finally they’re on the right street, and Geoff scans the house numbers, looking for the green, two-story home Ryan had described. His eyes pick out the house from a block down and as he directs the car towards the lot, he sees the correct number on the mailbox: 1209. This is the place.

\---

“Holy shit this place is cute as dicks,” Geoff says, joining Michael in the front yard.

“Honestly would you expect anything less from Haywood?” Michael asks. It is really cute.

“Good point,” Geoff says.

It’s a two-story craftsman home--old construction from the 20s, and the neighborhood is old and nice. It’s small but so full of character, even from the outside, that it looks like something that Ryan might’ve plucked off of a movie set and dropped down here into the coastal town. It’s completely fucking adorable, and Michael can hardly believe the fact that he’s going to live here for the next year.

“Let’s check it out,” Geoff suggests, trekking across the lawn and up to the wooden porch. He produces keys from his pocket, fumbling for the right one, unlocks the door, and turns the doorknob with a click. Geoff doesn’t open it, though, instead turning to Michael and stooping down.

“What?” Michael asks. Geoff doesn’t respond, instead gripping Michael by the back of the knee.

“What the fuck are you doing.”

“Carrying you across the threshold,” Geoff says, barely hiding a smile, trying to stay serious.

“That doesn’t even make sense, this is _Ryan’s_ house, and we’re not--Geoff!” and he won’t budge to let Geoff pick him up bridal-style, so the other man simply grabs him around the waist, even as Michael struggles, lifting him precariously and hipping the door open.

“No, this isn’t happening, you’re such a piece of shit Geoff--”

He steps in and Geoff is laughing so hard at his protests then that he really does drop Michael. It’s a short drop, though, right to his feet. Michael recovers himself quickly, crossing his arms in front of him.

“Sometimes I liked you more when you were super freaked out to touch me,” Michael grumbles.

“No you didn’t.”

\---

Ryan’s house is lovely, if a bit empty. He has minimal furniture and even, Geoff discovers, a few still-packed boxes in a hall closet. Geoff smiles as he thinks back to what his apartment had been like when he first moved to Chewelah and how Michael had changed all that. Maybe Michael’s touch would improve this place, too.

Geoff’s first stop is the kitchen, naturally, while Michael bounds to the back of the house to see his living quarters for the first time. The kitchen is sparse--just a few pots and pans--and Ryan had already warned Geoff that he’d emptied out the pantry and fridge before he left. They were to have free reign of the house all summer--and that included stocking it with groceries as they saw fit.

“God, this place, Geoff,” Michael says, finding him in the kitchen, catching him around the waist.

“You happy?” Geoff asks.

“Why d’you ask questions you already know the answer to?” Michael says, burying his face in Geoff’s chest. Geoff chuckles softly.

This.

They could have this. Whenever they wanted. As often as they wanted. All summer.

And then after that… Well it would take logistics, of course. But. They could have this now.

\---

Their first destination--after they get both cars unloaded and the evening light begins to die--is the grocery store. Geoff insists that they christen the kitchen with something better than a delivery pizza, so they both return to Geoff’s hatchback and the man navigates them to a grocery store he knows nearby.

“You mind if I call my parents real quick?” Michael says. “I should let them know I’m here.”

“Yeah, of course,” Geoff says.

Michael taps in the number for home.

“Michael!” his mom answers brightly, recognizing his number.

“Hey ma,” he says, smiling.

“How’s the coast?”

“It’s beautiful, holy shit,” Michael says. “I’ll send you some pictures as soon as I’m unpacked.”

“No rush,” his mom says. “I know you must just be getting settled in. You’re happy with your room?”

“Oh man, Ryan’s house is amazing,” Michael says. “It’s really nice--the whole neighborhood. I’m, like, you know I’m really lucky that I didn’t get into the dorm.”

“And how is Ryan? You two getting along?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s great,” Michael lies. “He’s really happy to have me. He’s taking me to the grocery store right now to pick a few things up, actually.”

It feels weird to lie to her with Geoff right there, listening.

“That’s so sweet of him, Michael,” she says, “taking you around while you get the lay of the land. Please tell him how much your father and I appreciate him?”

“I will, ma, for sure,” Michael says. “Is dad home?”

“Not yet, hon. You want me to have him give you a call when he gets in?”

“Yeah, sure,” Michael says. “If it goes to voicemail I’m just unpacking and stuff. We’re not going anywhere tonight.”

“Well I’m sure you’re eager to settle in, I won’t keep you,” she says, sounding maybe a little sad. “Thank you so much for letting me know you got there safely. Oh--and Ray! Did you two enjoy your time at the cabin?”

“Yeah, I mean we mostly just played video games but… yeah we had fun.”

They’ve arrived at the grocery store already, Geoff parking at the far end of the lot and idling as Michael finishes up the call.

“It was so nice of him to invite you to his aunt’s cabin,” his mom says. “Don’t forget to write his family a thank you note once you’re unpacked.”

“Sure, ma,” he says.

“OK honey, be safe. I love you.”

“Love you too, mom,” he says. “Bye.”

He ends the call and sighs. That felt a lot weirder than he wanted it to. He unbuckles his seatbelt and twists in the bucket seat to face Geoff--who has already turned to look at him.

“What are we going to do about them, Geoff?”

Michael regrets the question as soon as it’s out of his mouth.

“Sorry, we’re having a really good day--we don’t have to talk about this now,” Michael says, searching Geoff’s face. But the man’s smile doesn’t change.

“You mean about telling your parents about us?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“We’re… just going to _tell_ them, Michael,” Geoff says. Michael sighs again at the thought, turns away a little, but he’s met with firm hands on either shoulder and Geoff turns him back, facing Michael seriously. “We’ll wait until it makes sense. We can talk about when. But, look, we’re just going to tell them.”

“I’m just dreading it,” Michael admits. “I don’t like lying to them, but fuck, Geoff. You know? Christ. That’s not going to be an easy conversation, even having you beside me.”

Geoff nods--and against all odds he’s still smiling. “I know,” Geoff says through his grin.

Michael raises an eyebrow.

“Are you sure? Because you look like you’re fucking delighted to think about it.”

Geoff smiles too hard then, laughing through his nose and shaking his head.

“I am fucking delighted,” he admits.

“You’re more of a masochist than I thought,” Michael says.

“No, it’s just…” he starts. His eyes flick away and Michael can tell he’s making a decision. He works his tongue around in his mouth, playing idly with the piercing while he thinks, and finally it seems that he’s settled on what he’s going to say.

\---

“It’s going to be absolutely fucking terrible probably,” Geoff says. “But, I mean. Think about _when_ we’d need to tell them, Michael, when it would even matter? That's the part that makes me delighted.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Big life stuff, Michael,” Geoff says, and his eyes drop. “You… y’know moving in with me. Marriage-ish type stuff.”

“What the fuck, Geoff--”

“Listen, I’m not proposing to you--”

“You’d goddamn _better not_ propose to me in the fucking grocery store parking lot you fucking asshole--”

“I’m just… acknowledging that I love you very much. And I like you. And I’m starting to get the impression that you might tolerate me for a long time if I’m not too much of a dick.”

“Yeah? You might be onto something there,” Michael says, sarcastic.

“And maybe, if I don’t make you completely insane before you’re able to get a degree, maybe sometime you might want to marry me. Eventually. Someday.”

“Yeah, add a few more qualifiers in there, asshole,” Michael says, unbuckling his seatbelt. He’s already starting to get out of the car and Geoff moves to catch up. At first he thinks Michael is mad, but after a few paces he turns to Geoff and waits patiently, smiling wide. When Geoff reaches him, Michael drapes a hand across his waist and they walk towards the store.

“That doesn’t freak you out?” Geoff asks quietly.  

“The m-word? Fuck no,” Michael says. “I know you too well to think that you weren’t already thinking about that, anyway.”

“Hm.”

“Still nice to hear you say it,” Michael says. “You know, to know that it’s a real thing that doesn’t freak you out to acknowledge. I think if I’d have brought that up in December, you’d have vibrated off the face of the fucking earth.”

“Oh yeah, no,” Geoff says, almost laughing at how absurd it would’ve been, at how horrifying the thought would’ve seemed. All of these conversations--parents, moving, marriage--had felt like a nightmare a few months ago.

And yet here they are, on a warm May night, the sun setting and the earth spinning and Michael on his hip as they walk up to Haggen--not to buy stuff for one meal, for one stolen night alone and maybe some breakfast, but to stock a goddamn kitchen for the summer.

And all he can find to say is, “I love you, Michael.”

And all Michael can find to meet it is, “I love you too, Geoff.”

And the enormity of what has led them to this exchange is so far beyond the phrase that it’s a little absurd, Geoff thinks, that the English language hasn’t evolved a way to express everything else behind those three simple words.

It is a moment that no one around them could possibly guess is so profound for the two men, the unusual looking couple whose heads bow together as they walk and joke, one dark and tattooed and the other young and bright--but both of their hearts are opening up now, reaching out through time into the future, to a season when for the first time they will be allowed to lose track of the days together, to learn where one of them ends and the other begins, even as the boundaries between them become more pliant, more hazy. It’s a paradigm shift neither had expected--neither had known they needed--because maybe for the first time they are building and not repairing, creating something new instead of treading in the wake, no longer simply surviving together in the aftermath of a chance encounter.

Something about the shared experience, the time between August and now, has granted them the ability to understand that they are both feeling the same thing as Michael and Geoff cross the parking lot towards the grocery store, towards the sunset: a heavy, steady bliss, a love beyond love.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for letting me share this with you.  
> Thank you for coming with me.  
> It has been an honor to tell you this story.
> 
> With all my heart,  
> Kelly


	36. The Future of The Aftermath...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some housekeeping and announcements!

Hey guys! 

This is not your typical chapter and no, this is not a new addition to _The Aftermath_. I'm writing to tell you a little bit about the future of this work.

In December, I started publishing my writing under the pen name [Kay Decker](http://www.amazon.com/Kay-Decker/e/B019OCFP5E/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1462805801&sr=1-1) on Amazon.com. 

In March, I was fired from my job as the editor of a newspaper. What better time to follow my dreams of being a full-time writer?

I began publishing romance under a new pen name, [Kay Simone](http://www.amazon.com/Kay-Simone/e/B01ENWV1PI/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1). I have one book up for sale on Amazon, and I am working on editing another. 

My second book is — you guessed it —  _The Aftermath._

 

**The Details**

I owe so much to all of you for reading this work and encouraging me as I was writing it. New people are still coming to this story all the time, and I find that completely incredible! I am glad that I have been able to share it. But in order for me to rework the novel and publish it on Amazon, I will have to change its settings on AO3. 

**On May 18, 2016, I will change the settings on _The Aftermath_  so that it can only be viewed by logged-in users of the website. I would encourage you to download the work now so that you can have it in its entirety if it's something that is precious to you. **

The book I will publish on Amazon will be nearly identical to this one, although names and some small details are different. Plus, there are new passages and other elements that have been added to make the book better. It has also been through several hefty edits. 

 _The Hustler_ , the prequel to  _The Aftermath,_ has already been changed to logged-in users only. If you would like a PDF of the story as it originally was available, please don't hesitate to email me at author@kaysimone.com and I will send it to you, no questions asked.

 

**What happens now?**

I would love it if you would buy a copy of  _The Aftermath_ when it is available on Amazon.com! It will only cost $0.99 USD when it is published. The target publish date is May 27, but I may be able to publish sooner than that. 

Anyone can read a Kindle book — you don't have to own a Kindle device. You can read the book in your browser, through a free Kindle desktop app, or through a free app for your smartphone.

I will also be making  _The Aftermath_ available as a printed and bound softcover book — either the same week that it is available on Amazon or shortly thereafter. 

If you cannot buy the book, there are still ways to support my efforts! [You can download  _The Hustler_ for free right now on Amazon.com](https://www.amazon.com/Hustler-Kay-Simone-ebook/dp/B01F9KLTWS?ie=UTF8&ref_=asap_bc) and review the work for me if you'd like!

 **REVIEWS are vital to the success of romance novels.** A successful launch requires a whopping 50+ reviews from readers! I would be more than happy to provide a copy of the reworked version of  _The Aftermath_ to you in exchange for an honest review on Amazon.com. If you don't have access to an Amazon.com account, you could also review the book on Goodreads.com with a free account.

[SIGN UP HERE](http://goo.gl/forms/wvvikhecyJ) and you will receive a copy of  _The Aftermath_ when it is available (projected this Friday, May 13). I will send you an email when the manuscript is ready, and you'll be able to download the book. You'll have 10-12 days to read it. Then I will send you a link to the book when it is live on Amazon.com. Simply log in, leave a review (can be as short as you want! Even just one sentence will do!), and then shoot me an email with a link to your review.

I will still be writing Roosterteeth fanfiction! In fact, I'm working on a micheoff one-off right now. I am also planning on finishing all of the WIPs I have going on this site. 

 

**Finally, thank you.**

Writing is now the only thing I have that helps me make ends meet. Getting fired from my job was a complete shock, and left me with a mortgage and all of my other expenses to think about. Having this fandom has been one of the biggest blessings of my entire life. Without you all, I never would have thought I could actually write and be paid for my writing. Every single one of your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and messages has instilled in me a new confidence and a desire to be the best writer I can. I hope this book will always have a special place in your heart, and I hope my future writing delights you just as much.

To stay in the loop for all of my future endeavors, please [subscribe to my newsletter](http://kaysimone.com/contact/). 

And [please please consider signing up to receive an advance review copy of _The Aftermath_](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1qPMPNlQ3GLXkprd1Mx1_SPrD4HcTmMVzLadsU75miT8/viewform?c=0&w=1)! If you have already read the work in its current form, you know enough about it to leave a quick review — and that will help me out tremendously!

 

**Much much love to you all,**

**— _Kelly_**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Dinner](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2632049) by [nateyface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nateyface/pseuds/nateyface)
  * [An Aftermath of an Aftermath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428681) by [Final_Grayson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Final_Grayson/pseuds/Final_Grayson)
  * [[PODFIC] The Aftermath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945343) by [LexiWritesThings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LexiWritesThings/pseuds/LexiWritesThings)
  * [An Issue of Favoritism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5593435) by [BlackBat09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBat09/pseuds/BlackBat09)
  * [A Versatile Word](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5604652) by [BlackBat09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBat09/pseuds/BlackBat09)




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